Mynele
by Itar94
Summary: COMPLETE, AU [Merthur, Merlin/Will] Arthur Pendragon, a renowned artist. Merlin, a mere servant. Fate can be a cruel thing, as can love, when the world just isn't ready. "...All this pain because of an artist's brush and one man's desire."
1. March, 1623

_Author's note__: Here we are – another fic! This is all the fault of a book I read a couple of years ago and recently remembered when watching the motion picture version: 'Girl with a Pearl Earring'. It got me thinking and eventually writing this, dedicated to my OTP, sort of anyway. I've tried not to copy 'Girl with a Pearl Earring' straight off, but I've still used it as a base for setting. (If anyone who've read/seen it and thinks this just is too much of a replica, please share your thoughts with me.) Some characters are in smaller/bigger roles than we're used to in the 'Merlin' series and some have also been changed in age, how they're related to each other and so on. I've been chewing on this story for awhile – began sketching the first scenes in mid-2010 or maybe even earlier. Sometimes it takes many months for some of my stories to grow from initial idea to working chapters. (Sometimes they never make it from initial idea.) So I'm glad I've come this far. As I'm writing this I'm not fully finished with the ending, I have two ideas of what could happen (right now leaning toward a not-so-happy but more plausible ending). I never said anything about writing happy-go-lucky fics. (Actually I'm not very good at writing stuff like that.) I've tried not to make any characters act out of themselves…too much, anyway. I might've have played around with them a bit._

_Note on the title: I titled this story the last thing I did. It's incredibly tricky, you know, a fitting title to any kind of art. I could start a monologue now on the subject but I'll try and keep it short. The word 'mynele' is Old English for 'desire, longing' which is an incredibly important, perhaps the main, theme of this story. The reason I chose the Old English word is that I wanted the connection to the original Merlin series and magic – the majority of the spells (if not all of them) in the series are spoken Old English, which I here portray as the language of the Old Religion (as opposed to the 'new religion', Christianity, with its Latin as language). Does that make it any clearer?_

_This is not betaread._

_Warning__s__: __**SLASH**__. This is an __**AU**__ story – I'm placing our beloved (and some maybe less __loved) 'Merlin' characters in an unfamiliar setting and timeline. It's also a quite __**angsty**__ story and deserves a _strong_ T rating. I considered making it higher: though there are no explicit sex scenes as such, there are descriptions bordering on __**adult content**__ and almost non-con. Please tell me if you think I should mark this with a higher rating. As earlier stated, this contains slash, so please STAY AWAY if you're below the age of consent or cannot stomach any hint of homosexuality!_

_Setting__: An AU 17__th__ century England because we're in a city named Camelot (what other city could I chose?), though it's physical appearance is different from in the series, to begin with bigger and the Pendragons doesn't live in the castle as royalty (Uther is a lord but not king). I won't specify where Camelot is located, really. Also some aspects of society have been changed/modified (like how same-sex relationships are viewed) but there's still a class society with sharp bounds, and witch burnings are not uncommon. Magic and the Old religion are mostly prohibited and punishable by death (or banishment) and viewed with contempt._

_Pairings__: Merlin/Will [from episode 10 'Moment of Truth' season one], Merlin/Arthur, Uther/Ygraine. Other pairings will appear long- or short-term, both with and without consent. Of characters, there will be many, and I hope you can figure out the family relations yourselves._

_Genres__: Romance, angst, drama_

_And feedback is love!_

()()()

**Mynele (Desire)**

()()()

**I.**

**1623****  
>MARCH<strong>

"It wasn't meant to be this way," his mother said, like it would soothe him, make up for future pains and deem the situation a bit better, a bit less heavy on his shoulders and in her heart.

It's never meant to be this way.

But there was little else to do – they had no other family to do work for them and earn the tiny coin; not since his father's death. It had been the lack of proper food or the sudden cold illness, or perhaps both – just like that, in a heartbeat, he'd been gone, vanished, like a candle blown out by a sudden gust of wind. The thought of the man still brought tears to Merlin's eyes – the loss was so recent it stung in his heart every time his father's name was uttered.

Merlin wanted to plead, 'Mother, please, isn't there some other way?' or murmur 'Maybe I could (use my gift)…' But he didn't. He could not conjure up bread and water from thin air, could not create gold from rock, he'd already tried behind closed shutters and the gods decided it wasn't his place to play being them equal. And if he as much as suggested it, his mother would be so angry, so worried, crying '_Merlin_!' admonishingly: for the law forbade his very existence. According to it he'd be turned in, to be punished, executed. He hated being hidden, but he had no choice. A fact which his mother reminded him of every day, drilled into him since infanthood. It was the only thing he was truly sure of in this world: _keep the gift a secret no matter what. Sharing it is dangerous._

"But the city center?" he asked, despairingly. That's where the richer, wealthier families lived, their ways different from those of usual commoners. Strangers, all of them. The laws felt even stricter there, the surveillance on lower class people harder whenever they stepped into range of the spyglass. "I don't want to go to."

They led a simple life here, in the small corner quarter of Camelot. It was here the poorer families resided and the streets were constantly muddy and littered with children who had nowhere else to play and the beginnings of smoke coming out of the doors. But now, after bad crops and harsh winter, food was scarce, many inhabitants fell ill, and with the raised taxes they simply needed a more steady income. Sometimes when no one else was available Merlin's mother, Hunith, acted physician, but it was not well paid. Often her kind heart could not stand the sight of feverish children and weakened friends and she helped them anyway, payment or no. Kindness was sometimes rewarded with an extra piece of bread, some stored-away vegetables, or roughly woven fabric to warm when snow fell thick and cold; sometimes with a simple thank you; nothing but words put in her hands. Words cannot pay for food or taxes. Words cannot support a family.

Going to the center of Camelot, possibly permanently, away from his mother, his friends (albeit they were few), away from living where it was all _familiar_ – the thought was so frightening, so wrong.

"I know." Hunith looked at him sadly, and took his hands.

"But what about you, mother? You'll stay here?"

Before she could reply, he already knew the answer - yes. Of course. She was old, not as strong as she used to, having raised a family and carried many burdens. Merlin was young and healthy, many years ahead where he could work endlessly almost to the brink of torture. The choice was obvious, and the Pendragons had no room for nonworking people in the household. They needed the money. His mother needed the money, and his sister needed them. They would depend on him.

Merlin sagged like an invisible hand was pressing him down.

"I've already arranged it with Lady Ygraine and lord Uther, that you may come visit me every Sunday. If you do well they will pay five copper coins per day." It was meager, but better than nothing.

"I'll give you the pay," he promised, quietly, "when I come home."

When I come home. The words felt heavy and foreign and he wanted to take them back as soon as he'd said them; he didn't want to leave this place, this was his home.

"Don't. It's yours."

"You need it more than I do! They'll give me a roof over my head and food for the day…You'll have no one else. I won't let you and Freya starve!" His voice broke in a slight tremor at the end of that sentence, as realization hit him, a spear in his chest: he was going to leave, and had no idea when, if at all, he would return. It wasn't unknown that servants and serving-girls maintained their job and status for life, for always a lower part of the community, for always worthy the least, for always bound to serve. He didn't want to be a servant!

The woman smiled, sadly but kindly, and he feared it would take weeks or months before he saw that smile again. "You will need it one day, Merlin, much more so than I," she said, softly, like he was a child of ten years old and not sixteen.

"But, I don't want to leave, I really…Mother…"

"I know. I know. I would have wanted something better for you. But they are a respectable family, rightly so, and you shall be treated well."

She had already helped him pack everything this morning; right after Lady Ygraine herself had left. The lady had come to see everything was in order. Hunith, knowing such a revelation would only cause Merlin to fidget and worry, hadn't let him know why such a wealthy striking lady (dark blonde like what he imagined gold to look like, blue beautiful layers of skirts, rustling as she walked with powerful strides) had come to this poor area of the city until afterwards. The lady Ygraine had come alone, unescorted, her husband at home working and the children looked after by the housemaid. However, with another little one on the way more servants where needed. Some would say it was lucky, that such a fine family would look here, at these dirty streets, for a servant.

Merlin hated it. It didn't matter that the Pendragon family was respected and had a good reputation. None of those words mattered. He'd heard stories on the market about what happened sometimes to servants in such rich houses, and he shivered at the thought, chest wrenching. He didn't want to go. He didn't want to leave.

()()()

"You really have to go?" his sister Freya bemoaned when Merlin gave her the news. She was merely seven years old, bright and innocent yet so wise; she saw and understood so much more than she usually let on, and more than she should know. Had she been his age, she probably would have been the one ending up working as a servant. It was in general easier for a girl to find such a position in a household.

"I'm beginning tomorrow. I'm really sorry, Freya." Trying to make up for having to leave her, he hugged her, and the girl looked troubled. She had never been alone before: Merlin had always been there if Hunith had to go out for errands. Now, she'd have to make it on her own, and it was difficult for her.

"But you'll come visit right?"

She was scared and trying to hide it.

Merlin hugged her tightly, her thin frame felt tiny against his own scrawny one. "Of course I will. As often as I can." At least when he wouldn't be sleeping under the same roof as her anymore she would have a bit more to eat at every meal and some more blankets to warm beneath.

()()()

When he walked past, neighbours turned and looked at him, shaking their heads pitifully. Young Merlin had gone and become a servant-boy; that would be the talk for the rest of the week. Yet they didn't scoff, for it could very well happen to their own son or daughter; it was no laughing matter.

Merlin had never been to this part of Camelot. He'd been to the marketplace countless times, but beyond these were the mansions and grand houses where the wealthy population of the city lived and the area was mostly considered off-limits to the average citizen. There was nothing they could seek there but trouble.

It took less than half an hour to walk there and locate the house which he from now on would live in. The buildings on each side of the street loomed above him: tall, intimidating stone, large shadowed windows, people flickering by, perfectly folded coats and prosperous red-blue-golden dresses. He was glanced at oddly: with his brown clothing and awkward shyness, he didn't fit in.

The Pendragon mansion – it _had_ to be considered a mansion – was impressive and huge, made of grayish white stone which only seemed to emphasis the two previous statements. It was so grand that he had to simply stare. The entrance was marked by two pillars, and at the moment, the door was open, and four children were outside it, on the lawn which stretched from the door to the street, surrounded by some bushes.

There were three girls and one boy, the latter being the eldest of the group, with raven-dark hair. He was twelve or thirteen years old, having lost the plump stomach of a child yet he was not a teenager, shoulders broad but limbs thinned like stretched out from quick growth. He was forcefully swinging a wooden sword back and fro, fighting an imaginary foe. Two of the girls were blonde, one had hair of midnight: they seemed more interested in passing a ball between them in game than watching their brother.

Four children, Merlin thought wide-eyed, and a fifth one on its way?Why had his mother decided to send him to a family of this size? All he could see for a moment in his mind's eye was a never-ending pile of linen to wash and floors to scrub (muddy little feet constantly running around never giving it a moment's rest), and felt a bit ill to the stomach.

At seeing him standing there uncertain and wavering, one of the girls shot up from her seat, eyes wide. She looked like only three years old and her blonde hair was held from her face with a red headband. She tugged at the hem of one of her sisters' blue dress to get attention and suddenly all activity stopped. The toy ball bounced down onto the stone on the ground by the entrance door, rolling away from the children and Merlin had to stop it with his foot to keep it off the street.

The boy stopped his play and put the makeshift wooden blade in his belt like it was real. "Are you the new servant?" he asked.

"Yes. That's me." Unfortunately, Merlin added in his mind. He hoped the boy wouldn't be that much of a trouble. He had strangely cold blue eyes.

"We were told to watch for you. We have to tell Guinevere. Sophia, you can go," said the boy, obviously in charge. One of the dark blonde girls, maybe nine years old, shook her head still staring at Merlin disdainfully and the second oldest sister spoke up, wild black locks bouncing on her shoulders.

"I'll go, Mordred." She disappeared into the shadows of the house.

"So your name is Mordred?" Merlin asked, trying to strike up conversation.

The boy looked at him with eerily pale eyes, and huffed a bit, haughtily, chest puffing out. "Yes. This is Sophia and Morgause. Morgana is the oldest of the girls, though she's only ten - never do remind her of that because then she gets cross."

He smiled kindly. "I'll remember that. I'm Merlin."

"Arthur's out with Father hunting, they like to do that, well, whenever he isn't locked up in his studio that is – always too busy to be any fun. Mother usually doesn't go with them, she has better things to do, she says," Mordred continued like he hadn't heard, or cared, and Merlin frowned a bit at hearing that – another son? Five to be _six_ children? At least the upside today was that lord Pendragon was out. That meant he didn't have to face the man, who was spoken of on the street as ruthless, conceited and menacing with a _very_ strong voice. Merlin did not look forward to that meeting, and was glad that as a servant, it was natural to be given orders from the mistress of the house rather than the master.

"Oh. Who's Guinevere?" he asked curiously.

The girl Sophia began to speak, skewering her nose up like smelling something truly unpleasant. "She's the other _servant_." The last word was spat, something foul. Merlin felt his neck burn, embarrassed: even the little ones looked upon servants as something lower them, something dirty, and he wanted nothing else but to turn away for ever and run. "I don't like her," Sophia continued haughtily like only a child can; "She hit me once, when I tried borrowing Mother's combs. Mother nearly threw her out the house. Servant _never_ beats us." It was like a warning: Try it on me and I'll show you! Silently, Merlin reminded himself to never give Sophia any reason to be angry with him. There was probably no limit to what trouble she could cause at his expense.

Before he could say any more, a woman appeared in the doorway. Her skin was tanned like she had been out in the sun for hours on end and her face was marred by a constant frown, hands and nails worn, and a sort of tiredness lay over her eyes like a sheet. She looked considerably older than she probably was.

"You're Merlin?" she asked, more kindly than any of the children had. He nodded hesitantly, fingers gripping tighter around the bundle he carried with him, the few possessions he owned. They felt suddenly very heavy. "Come with me. I'll show you around the house. Mordred, keep an eye on your littlest sister while I go."

As it was, the lady Ygraine was upstairs resting, leaving Guinevere or Gwen as she preferred being called, in charge of the children. Obviously they were old enough that she might leave them for a time without watcher. Gwen looked like she needed some proper rest.

She showed him first to the kitchen, leftward from the hall (beautifully decorated with paintings, family portraits and white pillars, red curtains with golden embroidery in them hanging from the ceiling all the way down to the floor). The room was larger than the whole living area of Hunith's home, right now littered with pots and knives. Beyond it laid another room (dark murky-coloured wood, dank, drenched in the smell of soaps and sand) where washing would take place, and a generous pile had already gathered in the corner.

"Through that door there's a small garden. The canal is right beside it and the water is clean enough this part of town for washing, so you'll only need to fetch water from the well down the street for cooking."

Merlin nodded. It'd take at least the quarter of an hour to get to the well and back, so the river's proximity was a pleasant surprise. "Washing, fetching water and running errands on the market will be your duties to begin with," Gwen continued, and cast a displeased glance into the workroom. "We are very much behind the schedule, look at all that linen." She put her hands together, satisfied when Merlin understood it all clearly. "Then, when master Arthur returns, he'll show you the studio."

The studio. Merlin knew he was to clean that room making it look like nothing had been touched and wondered idly how come Gwen wasn't doing it. She didn't seem irresponsible or indolent.

"Well then. My mistress will be down for supper. You can start putting the linen in water to soften it up, then you'll follow me to the market."

"Where do I put my things?" Merlin asked.

Gwen showed him up three sets of steep stairs – the study and kitchen was on the first floor, the sleeping chambers and the studio on the second - to a small loft with low ceiling, forcing Merlin to bend down unless he'd hit his head. There was a tiny window, dusty like the rest of the room – he'd have to clean up later. It appeared the window had stuck which he too had to fix, because attics had the habit to grow uncomfortably hot when summer sun gazed at it for a whole day.

"Put your pack over there," the woman pointed at a corner. "I sleep in the cellar, so you will have some privacy." Not that there would be much time to it. The room had no lock and keys, but it was expected, and Merlin knew that even his personal things wouldn't be personal for much longer. The lord and lady of the house all had right to search them through if they suspected he was stealing silver and spoons.

He didn't have many things with him: his mother had reminded him to bring two rough shirts to work in, one red and one blue, so he could wear one and wash the other, thus always wear clean clothes. Hunith always said it was important to make a good impression like that. Otherwise, there wasn't much: a simple cloak for the snow and rain, a brown cap, and of course the neckerchiefs he always wore. He didn't own any gloves. He also had one of his most precious memories of his father, a wooden toy carved in the shape of a dragon which his father had given him when he was five years old, placed at the bottom of the package. A memory to make him feel less lonely.

He wished he had ended up in a household where his prayers of the Old Religion would be allowed, but it was already too late, and his mother had warned him to only pray in silence when no one could see or hear. Preferably not even then. People with power tended not to have leniency.

()()()

Assuming he knew enough to begin working, Gwen left to finish the last preparations of supper. Merlin sighed and climbed down the stairs, to the workroom. He located some pitchers and went outside to gather water. Quickly he went about his task and put the water and dirty linen in a large tub. Before he'd left, Hunith had reminded him of a hundred little details of housework, and he remembered that he couldn't begin the washing at once, it had to soak first to get properly clean.

There was doors opening and closing, voices down the hall. He could not see them, but he assumed that the oldest Pendragons must have come home. From the kitchen, he heard scrambling, footsteps, pots and pans slamming and Gwen's voice, impatient. "No, the food isn't finished yet. Do not touch it! Look at your filthy hands! Mordred, go wash them at once." The boy whined but at Gwen's threat of telling his father made him quiet, and Mordred's feet reluctantly padded away. Merlin looked up from sorting the linen when the servant girl materialized in the doorway, wringing her hands in her apron.

"Come on," she said and handed him a pail. "We have to go to the market before mid-day. That's when you get the best pieces."

When they went through the hall, both Uther and his son had already left it.

()()()

The market was so very recognizable, with its sounds and people milling about, his heart felt heavy at seeing it, not knowing when or if at all he'd be able to walk through it alongside his mother or Freya and talk freely and laugh. Gwen was friendly, but many years of stress and work had made her serious and quiet. The overhanging smell of meat, blood and salt was almost dizzying, yet comforting; Merlin could recognize several salesmen, including the butcher he and his mother used to buy from when they could afford the luxury of meat. Gwen steered him away, deeper into the market, to an unfamiliar stall with an unfamiliar man in it. The bench was bloodied as was the man's apron.

"Hello, Guinevere," he said, eyes smiling.

Gwen greeted the man politely and said, "Thomas, this is Merlin. He's the new servant and will be running market errands from now on." Awkwardly, Merlin nodded his head, eyes unwillingly drawn to the man's reddened hands and clothes.

The usual butcher that Hunith used to buy from always greeted his customers with a clean apron and knife.

"I see," Thomas said cheerfully, turning to the boy; "What then would you like today, Merlin?"

Gwen answered in Merlin's place, kindly but briskly, a bit stressed: there was no time for chitchat. "Three pounds of pork and one pound of tongue." As he prepared and packed the order, Thomas assured Merlin that they sold the best quality meat in Camelot, though Merlin wasn't acutely listening.

Later, when walking home, Merlin's steps felt weighty – he wanted nothing else than turn away from the street leading to the Pendragon home, away from it forever, back home to his mother and hand her the pail full of pork. They hadn't had meat for months.

()()()

The rest of the day fell into a rhythm of pulling down, folding, pulling down, folding all the clothes that had been hung out to dry by Gwen earlier. Then he took it into the workroom to iron it. When nobody was looking – one good thing was that people usually avoided servants – his eyes glowed gold briefly and all creases smoothed out perfectly by an invincible hand, without him having to move. He'd already stopped wondering where he'd learned tricks like that. It was a dangerous risk and Gwen appeared in the doorway mere seconds later, startling him and making his pulse speed up, and he decided not to do something like that again.

He wouldn't eat with the family (only get the leftovers along with Gwen), but he helped set the table and managed not to break any porcelain despite Sophia's impatient stalking nearby and his natural clumsiness. She'll get over it, he thought to himself in attempt to calm down, sensing the girl's angry gaze. She's just a child. She'll get over it.

Lady Ygraine came down as Gwen announced supper was ready, the kitchen smelling of smoke and freshly chopped vegetables and roasted meat, making Merlin's mouth water. The lady didn't speak, just gave him a look and a nod, which he supposed meant that he'd passed the test of the first day. Her husband Uther joined her – he was a tall man with blonde-turning-gray hair and an air of authority around him, he wasn't a person you wished to get cross with. His eyes were the colour of iron, and there was an old scar across his forehead; like a forbearing warning, making him look more dangerous. He barely spent Merlin a glance.

Their older son Arthur was nineteen, three years his senior. When seeing him now Merlin spotted both the mother and the father in him; tall and broad-shouldered, golden-haired, a strong jaw. Though he was stern-looking there was softness around his mouth and eyes that suggested he wasn't as ruthless as his father. His eyes were a clear blue, like a piece of the sky. He reminded more of Lady Ygraine than anyone else. His hands were rough: not the hands of a man who sat back idly and watched.

Gwen led him back to the kitchen. "I'll serve them," she said, filling a pitcher with wine. "You can tidy up here." What she meant was, Be quiet now and do not bother the gentlefolk.

At least tidying and putting the kitchen into order wasn't as heavy as bending and folding and lifting all that linen.

()()()

It was difficult to fall asleep that first night. The ceiling above his head was crooked and gave the illusion of falling down on him. There was small bedding – a thing he hadn't had at home, thought bitterly – but the straw mattress was thin and hard, and he couldn't get comfortable, shifting all the while. The wood in the walls, the floors, the ceiling creaked, from below he sometimes heard hushed footsteps and voices, a child waking up in the middle of night, every sound in the house was new to his ears. He couldn't lie still and relax.

So this is it, he couldn't help thinking, no light at all seeping through the tiny window by the end of the bed. I am really going to stay here.

()()()

The keys rattled loudly in the lady's hands. She opened the door, leaning against it for support and rested her right hand on her well-swollen stomach.

"This is the studio. Your job is to clean it thoroughly without moving anything. Arthur will need to use it in less than three hours, so be quick about it."

Merlin nodded and looked around the room. One wall was entirely made of windows: finely aged glass, carved wood and colourings adorning the edges, letting in fresh light. In the corner there was a silent scene and though he'd never seen any of the paintings done by Arthur himself, he assumed that the corner, with its empty chair and littered parchments and ink quills on the table, was where the current painting was taking place. The wall behind the corner was yellowed and a map of a land Merlin never had seen hung onto it quite vacantly. Next to the door two wooden chests were placed, one of them open and half-empty. An easel stood at the centre of the room covered with a large piece of cloth. Merlin had an urge to cross the room and lift it to see what was below, but didn't dare.

The lady didn't say anything more and turned to leave, closing and locking the door behind her. Of course she locked: her jewelry rested in there, unguarded. Like it was possible for him to run off with them.

Now he just had to figure out how to clean without actually moving anything a single inch. How could he be sure to place the objects back to where they belonged? Gingerly he put down the bucket, watered a cloth and approached the table. The quill looked very fragile and he pressed the cloth against it for a short second before lifting his hand again. Then he moved back seven, eight steps and looked at the scene closely. Nothing seemed to have changed. The shadows fell onto the right places. To make sure it was exactly as before, he looked at everything from different angles and used thumbs, hands and even arms to measure their position from the edge of the table.

For the next two hours he walked repeatedly back and forth to judge how the objects on the table were placed, carefully use the cloth to slowly polish away the thin layer of dust that had settled. It took a lot longer than he first had thought, for such a small scene – the folded piece of fabric was especially difficult; if he moved it any way the folds wouldn't lay back the way they were before. He had to find a more effective way to do it. Now just pressing the wet cloth against it had to do.

He considered using magic, but glanced at the door able to hear every sound below (Gwen was scolding Mordred for not washing his hands again) and shook his head. He rather liked his head where it was.

()()()

The next few days settled into a sort of steady, never-ending pace. He grew more used to his duties, though he still was unsure how to act around both his master and mistress. Uther was not around much, often out with fellow men his status or his son (training with the sword in the fields, and riding, Gwen said) whenever Arthur wasn't painting, alone and uninterrupted upstairs. No one dared to disturb him.

The lady, on the other hand, faltered a bit every time he encountered her in the hallways. Merlin was always polite, but she didn't speak much. The pregnancy made her absent-minded, and she often retired to the soft shadows of the sleeping chambers.

It was hard work, carrying and heating the water and stirring the cloth-filled tub, and his front was drenched to the skin and his back ached. Watching over the children wasn't really one of his duties but he did it anyway, as Gwen often latched them onto him when he'd just finished another chore and she was weary. Both Sophia and Mordred had proved to be stubborn and at first refusing to listen to him: Morgana, the eldest girl, and Morgause, the youngest, were easier to handle, as they understood that he was in charge whether they wanted it or not. Also, he was to help Gwen with supper and scrub the floors in the evenings so that they would be clean and smell freshly the next morning.

The only peaceful place in the house was the studio – no one was allowed there except for him and the man who worked there. Not even master Uther ever came in there, what Merlin had seen anyway. Arthur never was there when Merlin was cleaning, and the man had never spoken to him. He still was thinking about cleaning the windows, he was no artist and didn't know how their minds worked, but the light would change and he didn't want to be fired because of destroying a painting by ruining its scene. But he was unsure how to ask such a question when Arthur was so hard to reach.

Walking down to the market was a nice change of setting. The air was always fresher outside the workroom or stuffy kitchen. The first three days Gwen followed him, directed him where to go and how to order, but after that left him to his own. This gave him a chance to finally relax. Not completely, but a little. He walked slowly, taking in the sights again, and stopped briefly by stands with people he knew, like the old butcher, who greeted him happily, and an elderly lady who sold tulips. They had already heard from loquacious neighbors about his employment at the Pendragons' and didn't comment on it, but their expressions were enough to know what they were thinking.

Tomorrow he'd be able to visit his mother, as he'd been promised to once every week. It was always busy in the house, and he'd not be able to stay for long – but he longed so much for it that he had some trouble concentrating, almost walking into the stand he had been sent to.

"Hello Merlin," Thomas the butcher's kind, cheerful voice interrupted his musings. "How nice to see you again! What would you like today?" He always asked like that, even if very well aware that it wasn't for Merlin but the Pendragons to eat.

"A leg of mutton, please."

"Is there a feast tonight?" the butcher smiled. "William, son! Come help me."

From the back of the stall a young man appeared – Thomas' son: they shared the same brown eyes and auburn hair. His face was somehow pleasing to the eye, slightly plump and soft, and there was a hint of stubble along his jaw. He was maybe eighteen years old, with broad hands, and a not much cleaner apron than his father. Somehow, to Merlin, if felt like the butcher had staged it all just to make the two of them see each other, but passed the thought off, as it sounded ridiculous.

"Mustn't that have been the best pork you have ever eaten, Merlin?" Thomas asked about his last purchase, and Merlin shrugged, speaking in honesty.

"The family ate it. They didn't say much about it." He rarely got to taste anything but unflavoured leftovers that no one else wanted.

Feeling William's curious burning eye on him, Merlin repeated the order, trying to fight the blush rising to his cheeks. Somehow, the brown eyes constantly strayed back to him, intensive, when the young man worked: Merlin looked away and was glad when Thomas laid the mutton upon the counter, breaking the tension.

The meat presented was grayish at the edges and the smell was slight off; and for a moment Merlin thought about Sophia, the little brat, how she couldn't deserve such luxury every day on end, it wouldn't hurt to go without meat or fish for once: but then he bit his lip and changed his mind. It wouldn't do to get fired. "This meat is old," he said briskly. He wasn't used to speaking so overbearingly, but maybe it was needed. "I doubt lady Ygraine would be happy about that."

Where they testing him? he couldn't help thinking, briefly. Testing his…ability… his reaction, his person? The overhanging doubt made him swallow, but along it, he forced his nervousness away. Now was not the time, when they were studying him so closely with those very alike brown eyes.

The expressions on their faces appeared genuine. Thomas and William looked at him incredulously, and then the father chuckled from the back of his throat, bemused. "Of course, how could I not have noticed? Will, go fetch the parcel on the trolley."

The son frowned, eyes flickering between the butcher and Merlin, who stubbornly stood his ground. "But, wasn't that meant for…"

His father quietly looked at him (eyes like dark spicy tea) and with a shrug William sprinted off. When he returned he had with him a piece of high quality meat. It took a while, for Thomas readily talked when packaging, but eventually Merlin had in his pail what he'd come for. The sun had already passed more than he'd appreciate. Gwen would _not_ be happy.

When he turned to leave, Merlin missed the knowing look passing between father and son; for the moment oblivious to what it would mean to him and his future.

()()()

When Sunday arrived, bright with the occasional cloud, Merlin's heart felt lighter than any other morning that week. He set to work as early as he could, to get it finished. Before running the market chores, he could visit his family. He hung out the clothes he'd washed yesterday to dry in the sun as Gwen bustled about, preparing breakfast. He had some time to sit outside and do the mending and watch the river flow, almost peacefully, the sounds of the city fading to the background. Several boats passed by, fully loaded so that water almost made its way over the brims, though the men steering them didn't appear bothered.

After having eaten, lady Ygraine gave him a verbal list of what she desired having bought that day and he was off, the weeks' pay secure in a leather pouch attached to his belt.

Freya had been waiting by the stair all morning and bounced up and down at the sight of him. "Merlin! Tell me everything! Is it a big house? Do they have children? Are they my age? Are they nice? Did you get to eat with them on silver tableware and wear fine clothes? Did you get to see-"

"Let him step inside, Freya," Hunith interrupted the child, amused at her antics. "How do you feel, Merlin?"

Tired. He was tired, like someone had dropped a full sack of grain on his shoulders, and wanted to stay here forever and forget about the Pendragons and the pail left by the doorstep, soon to be filled with fresh fish from the riverside, and just lie down here and sleep. "I'm fine. It's not that bad, really."

His mother took his hands, like she used to when she was worried about him and unsure of what to say. Her thumbs rolled over his palms. "Your hands are worn and rough…and it's only been one week. I have an ointment that will help." She went to fetch it, rummaging through a few cupboards containing the herbs and other items she used when going to help the poorer citizens as physician.

"It'll be easier later," Merlin said, smiling lightly like he usually did to cheer her up. "It's just they're after with all the laundry right now, having too few servants and so many children. After a while it'll get better."

"Here, mother." He held out the pouch.

She eyed him critically. "That's all your week's pay," she murmured, weighing the pouch in her hand before opening it and spilling the coins into her palm. Carefully she divided the amount, some for herself and Freya, the rest for Merlin. He began to object, but she silenced him, shaking her head. "No. I meant it when I said it; you will need it more than I. I have earned some of my own by helping the neighbors." With a tiny encouraging smile she put both the lighter money pouch and a small flask into his hands. She always refused doles of any kind, even when the butcher said he could spare a small piece of meat. Even from her own son, she declined most of it. Merlin didn't know if he should admire or pity his mother's stubbornness.

"Do you have long or must you go? Freya is eager to hear everything."

So he stayed and talked, about the grand mansion and its green lawn; the pallid stonework and colourful rooms with their heavy tapestries and rich furniture; the large kitchen; the river gently lolling just outside the door. He spoke about Guinevere and the children and even mentioned the butcher and his son, but never of Sophie's heated hateful glances, or Mordred's haughtiness that one time he tripped in the hallway right in front of the boy and almost broke a pitcher. He described the studio with its silent corner and how he wondered the painting itself looked like. Freya was very happy and asked him to describe the house, the details in the hallway, the many-layered colours of the clothes the gentlefolk wore, and there was no envy in her eyes: only interest and curiosity.

"At least Guinevere seems very kind," Hunith said, relieved. "What about lady Ygraine and her husband?"

"I do not see them very much. The lady rests a lot because of her pregnancy, and the lord is usually out with his eldest, Arthur. I haven't seen myself as they're by the fields outside the city, but Gwen says they are training with the sword and horse-riding."

"Well, they are noblemen. It is hardly our business how they spend their time," his mother murmured. The sun had moved partly across the sky, shadows longer, and with a sigh Hunith laid a hand on his back and lead him to the front door. "You better go. You do not want to be late."

Merlin smiled, forlornly, as he hugged Freya in goodbye and the girl whispered like a secret question: "Can't you take me with you one day? I want to see the large windows in the house and meet Morgana and Sophia. Can't you?"

"Maybe one day," he said and patted her head, quietly thinking that it would never happen - Freya would soon enough forget the request anyway.

()()()

"You're late," Gwen observed when he arrived with a pail full of fish.

"I'm sorry. I lost track of time." Though he hated acting meek, he shifted his gaze to the floor and tried to look as apologetic as possible. Not only had he lingered at home, but when on the market, William had had some free time and attempted to make conversation with him when on his way from the fisher's stand. Merlin hadn't been able to just walk away from him.

"Don't be again. Wash your hands. Then you can go and scrub the outer stair. The physician will come to visit any moment, and master Pendragon probably as well, look at the time!"

He'd never met any physician before apart from his mother, so he had no idea whom Gwen was talking about, and to a servant like him it should not matter anyway. He did as she bid, ridding his hands off the smell of fish and smoke, before settling in the sun in front of the house, the bucket by his side. It didn't take long for the sun to start bothering him, a bead of sweat forming in the crook of his scarfed neck; but he would never open his shirt and bare himself that way, or take off the neckerchief he always wore. It made people…_look_, and it made him uncomfortable. The work grew perfunctory as his mind began wandering to unimportant things. He wondered if anyone would notice if he used his gift to hurry up this work a little bit…

After a while, the sound of hoof-beats echoed between the buildings, and Merlin looked up as they stopped just by the entrance, coming into view between the greenery. There were two horses, proud and quite beautiful; Uther was conversing with his son, who laughed at something as they dismounted. Their voices carried over to him, into the house – the door was open again, to let in fresh breezes. As if on cue, the girls and Mordred appeared, rushing outside. The latter ignored Merlin completely. Morgana was leading the littlest sister by hand, walking past without a glance but Sophia stopped for a moment, staring at him.

He met the girl's gaze steadfastly. When her father was present, she didn't dare do anything, but he could almost read her thoughts in those indigo eyes. His chest jerked a bit, a pain he couldn't explain, as he wondered why she hated him so much.

Then Sophia turned to her father smiling brilliantly. "Father, father! Have you bought the flowers you promised from the meadow?"

Both men exchanged knowing glances, and the elder nodded. "Yes, Sophia, we have. Now, let me take care of the horses."

Actually, he meant taking them to the stables, which Merlin knew were nearby but never been to himself. Gwen and he were only working in the house. There were two stable-boys but they never went up to the house, so Merlin never had a chance to meet them. (That time he'd said it out loud, Gwen had just commented, that "The less distractions there are the quicker you get the work done.")

"I can do that, father," the son Arthur said. It was the first time Merlin heard him speak, and his voice was soft though commanding as he said that, brisk and husky - Merlin shivered, wondering why he noticed things like that. Arthur twisted his head like feeling he was being watched and, for a short moment, met the servant's eyes. The man's eyes were very blue.

Finally his father distracted Arthur, and Merlin exhaled deeply. Dropping his gaze from the blonde man (the sunlight made his hair appear like a golden crown), he began scrubbing more furiously at the stonework. What was that? he thought, angry with himself - what was wrong with him today?

"Go on then, son. Come here, girls, tell me what you have been up to," the older Pendragons said, his voice so strangely warm and kind, not at all like belonging to a ruthless man; it took Merlin by surprise. "Mordred, I hope you have not caused your mother any stress." The children flocked around the man as they disappeared inside the house. Merlin finally dared to lift his gaze, but found that Arthur too had gone.

Somehow, it disappointed him; a nagging feeling at the bottom of his stomach.


	2. April to June

_Author's note: Thank you everyone who've read and added to favorites/alerts. Thanks also to my reviewers Slashie and silveralipox!  
><em>_I've now decided how long this story will be (and not continue aimlessly). I aim at longer chapters, though, spanning over a long time each so despite maybe few chapters the story won't actually be short._

()()()

**II.**

**APRIL**

The painting still stayed covered when he cleaned the studio, shielded from the sunlight.

After a while, the laundry load grew slightly lighter. However, Gwen saw it fit he'd begin caring more for the children when she was busy and lady Ygraine all too tired. The babe was only a month away now. "She usually stays abed all the time now," Gwen had said about her mistress' habits; "propped up amongst all her plush pillows."

His days were full. Especially Morgause, the littlest one, craved understandable attention. He was glad that he had taken care of Freya when she was younger and knew how to deal with such a young one's temper. Luckily Morgause was easily pleased and not very prone to screaming. Mordred refused to sit still, but Morgana was very firm and stubborn, like steel – much like her parents – and helpful to keep an eye on him. That left Sophia. She'd never really tried anything, but he could never relax when her small heated eyes bore into his back.

He had spent a whole afternoon bent over the hot steaming water of the large washing barrel, and his hair was plastered to his forehead by sweat and soapy vapor. Then a dismayed cry rang out from the hall and Gwen stepped into the workroom, looking at him, frowning.

"Yes?" he asked, pausing in his work. "What is it, Gwen?"

"Dry yourself, try and look presentable, quickly now. Master Uther wants to see you in his study right away."

Merlin gulped. What? Gingerly he toweled his face and damp hair, tried to make it look all right and comb through it with his fingers, before moving out of the kitchen area. Never before had he been called by Uther like this. He'd never been to the lord's study, or the gentlefolk's chambers – Gwen did all the cleaning there. The door was half-open as he arrived.

Sophie sat on a stood beside a bookshelf, tears gleaming in her eyes, while the lord's face was dark, where he stood behind a large desk. Merlin tried to look as small as possible. "You sent for me, sir?"

"It was him, Father!" the girl cried, "He stole them."

"What? I haven't stolen anything!" slipped past Merlin's lips before he could stop the words. The accusation stung, as it implied more than that he might be a thief, but he should have expected it from the girl someday.

"So you deny stealing my daughter's jewelry? Though this was found among your possessions?" Uther demanded, his face was intimidating and Merlin had no time to feel humiliated about having his tiny bit of privacy ruined without him knowing, when the man showed a pearl necklace and a beautiful bracelet, glinting in the light falling through the uncovered windows.

"Yes," he said, voice wobbling a bit. Louder, stronger, he said: "Yes. I haven't stolen anything from your family or your house, sir. _Ever_. I swear it. I have never laid eyes on those pieces of jewelry before, sir."

The man looked at him thoroughly for a long while, trying to discern if the boy was lying. Merlin kept his hands pressed tightly together and held the man's gaze as long as he could, not to show disobedience but to tell the man he wasn't lying – he wouldn't lie into his face, looking into his eyes.

"If something like this happens again there will be no second chance, understood? I will have you fired," was the warning, and it felt like someone had lifted a stone from Merlin's chest, making him able to breathe again.

"Yes, sir."

"Go, continue with your chores."

He'd never been so thankful of walking through a doorway before.

()()()

The next day both began and ended with hanging up the linen to dry and pale in the sun. It hadn't rained for days. If just a short quick shower were to fall down, Merlin would be happy; rain always was cooling and nowadays he always felt overheated and sweaty, no matter that the time of year was rather cold. Sometimes he would, after finishing the chores, bring a small tub to the cellar so that he could wash off, privately, but he always felt uncomfortable doing it, afraid that anyone might come down and see him.

He went to the market again, the sun not yet at its highest peak in the sky. When Merlin arrived, Will was in his father's place, and at seeing the servant his face lit up.

"Merlin," the butcher's son said with a smile.

"Hello." He ordered what lady Ygraine had wanted to eat today, and waited as Will prepared it. All the blood and sharp smells and buzzing flies drawn to it were a little dizzying; Merlin still hadn't gotten used to it and would've liked to sit down.

"You haven't come visited for awhile, I started to get worried," Will said, and Merlin was uncertain if he was teasing or not. The young man winked at him, asking, "When do I get to see you again?"

"The Pendragons ask for meat every second day," Merlin murmured though Will knew that already. Why was he looking at him like that? Unconsciously he brought his free hand up and fastened his neckerchief, making sure it was in place, and tugged at the hem of his jacket. "I'll come back at Thursday."

"I shall be looking forward to it." The butcher's son dropped the parcel in the pail and awkwardly Merlin thanked him. On his way from the market, he kept glancing over his shoulder, aware of the brown eyes on his back. Will didn't look away.

()()()

"Merlin," Gwen said walking over to the fireplace where he was sitting, doing the mending, "You have to go to the apothecary today on the market rounds. We need yarrow and elderflower. And as you're at it, buy some onion and turnip as well if they're to be found at a good price."

He picked himself up and, when Gwen went back to the kitchen, allowed the tear in the dress to sew itself together neatly. Quailing slightly – partly unsure as of _why_ – at the thought of already going back to the marketplace, he tied another blue neckerchief around his neck. He pulled at the hem of his shirt, smoothing out any crevices, making sure that the collar stayed in place, before walking out.

The apothecary was an elderly man, Gaius, who constantly squinted and mumbled as he sorted through his bottles, shelves and yellowed parchments. At first sight the pharmacy seemed cluttered and messy, and smells of all kinds of herbs assaulted his nostrils dizzyingly, but then Merlin noticed how the old man could turn at his heel to find exactly what he was looking for and there was, in a way, order. He was kind, if a bit odd, and very surprised when Merlin explained he was working for the Pendragon household (they hadn't hired a new servant for years – a few had worked for up a week for them, but the family was displeased and the poor servants were fired before they could say hello).

The old man had grinned, muttering half-loudly about 'Those most cosset folks!' making Merlin laugh, and then wonder how come he still had his job left, if the Pendragons were so picky. Merlin always tried to do his best, but he was sometimes clumsy and accident prone, walking into furniture, dropping things, stumbling when walking up the stairs. He certainly wasn't the most perfect servant one could wish for, but didn't dare ponder on why he still had his job; if he did he'd probably lose it by thought alone.

Next he went to the vegetable and fruit booths. It was the most colourful part of the whole market, and Merlin hungrily eyed some unfamiliar round darkly yellow fruit which he'd loved to try; it looked lovely, but he doubted his meager pay could afford a single one. He had to wait awhile to buy what Gwen had ordered, for the place was full of people in queue: merchants, apprentices, servants, maids, mistresses, masters. Voices were littered everywhere among the wares.

When done, he was on his way back to the house when a small fist tugged at his jacket and startled he almost dropped the basket.

"Freya! What are you doing here?"

The girl beamed, bouncing on her heels. "I'm here with mother. We're going to have pork tonight!"

Merlin returned the smile. "That sounds lovely. Where is she?"

The girl pointed across the street, where their usual butcher was standing. Merlin scanned the area and recognized the bun of his mother's knotted hair. "Are you having free time now?" Freya asked as she ran about him in circles, following his steps. "Can you come with us home and eat? It's boring without you there. The other children aren't as fun as you. "

"I'm afraid not, I'm out running errands and if Gwen finds out I'm late I'll be in trouble." The girl nodded very seriously in understanding. "But I want to talk with mother first."

"Then hurry!" Freya began tugging at his brown jacket again, and continued to speak with the wisdom of a child: "Mother wants to see you, a lot, she's very worried sometimes. She thinks I can't hear it, but sometimes she's complained when chopping the turnips. She's scared something's going to happen to you."

A painful wheel turned in Merlin's stomach, his face falling, chest aching. His mother never used to complain, _never_, not even when Merlin's father died leaving her penniless. She was so strong: always, forever unyielding. He had thought she would be strong and unyielding forever, anyway.

"Are you all right, mother?"

"I'm fine. It's wonderful to see you again," Hunith said.

"I come here almost every day," Merlin said with a genuinely happy smile. "Maybe we'll meet again soon."

()()()

**MAY**

The weeks came and went, and the days grew warmer. The workroom was dank and dark and his back and knees ached constantly from leaning over the hot steam, stirring the linen and cleaning the kitchen and scrubbing the floors. He continued visiting his mother and Freya every Sunday for a few hours, and got more used to the butcher and his son's kind but teasing nature. William had begun looking at him twice, saying those passing-by small words sometimes which made Merlin blush, though even as he didn't always answer William was persistent and wouldn't be deterred.

Mordred began following his father and brother to the outskirts of the city now that he'd turned fourteen, and was at home less and less: lady Ygraine retired to her chambers to rest almost immediately after breakfast. The house was quiet but for the pottery clanks when Gwen bustled about and the creaking of the stairs now and then in the evenings. The children weren't allowed to be inside and disturb the lady, and Merlin found it difficult to concentrate with Sophia's close disdainful stare on his back. More than once he'd discovered the white sheets hanging to dry to be covered with muddy handprints.

(Had Gwen struggled this much with her before he came? Had the girl always been this way? Sometimes Merlin wondered if the girl simply felt lonely and craved attention and did what she could to gain it. After all, it's a child's way, much like adults sometimes, to cry before the cause.)

When the lady's pains started by midday the physician was already called for, and Gwen ushered Merlin and the girls out of the house. "Take them with you to the market. I know my mistress, she's like made for childbirth. It'll be safe to come back in two or three hours."

Merlin didn't hesitate, hearing pained screams echo coldly through the hallway, through the floors. He didn't want to listen to the woman's struggle.

He took the girls as ordered and they seemed happy to be able to walk around town. They usually only left the house with either parent or Gwen, not Merlin, he wasn't normally trusted with that kind of thing and besides, there was other work to do. He showed them the stocks market which amused them; they liked seeing all the creatures, and the people. Morgana and Sophie were huddled together; chattering endlessly and giggling, and Morgause did her best attempts at walking but ended up crawling across the dirt of the street, almost being trampled by a goose. Her small dress' front was covered up in mud and reluctantly Merlin lifted her up. Getting rid off that dirt would take hours.

"We want to see the river!" Morgana cried and sprinted off, Sophia on her heels. The two engaged in a game, counting the boats and the shapes and colours of them. Merlin would've liked to sit down, his feet were sore, but didn't dare because the girls liked running from one place to another and couldn't be still.

"Do not be so close to the water," he warned them, reluctantly. "You don't want to fall in."

"I can swim," Sophia proudly proclaimed but before she could take the leap into the murky depths, Merlin stepped forward and held her back by the wrist.

"Not today, you won't."

Her eyes narrowed as her face scrunched up in a grimace of disdain, practically screaming. "I want to! Father and Mother would let me."

"I am not your father or your mother and I will not let you swim in the canal," Merlin said firmly. With his luck with her so far, God would probably curse him to make her drown.

Her face turned stormy, and she stomped her foot. "I'll tell Father! I'll tell him, and he'll kick you out of the house! I promise I will!"

For once he let her anger wash over him and away into the muddy street, and steered her and her sister away from the water, ignoring the cries of protest. God, he thought, please let two hours have passed soon. The girl had surprisingly strong fists.

()()()

It was a boy. There were small tuffs of blonde hair atop of his head, and his eyes were a dark misty blue. The other children assembled around the bed along with Uther, who looked proud and strangely kind with that smile, those shining eyes. Arthur, the eldest, drew back, Merlin saw him lean against the wall beside a cupboard as the servant stepped through the door.

He had never been to this chamber before –- it's wide curtained windows, beautiful paintings, heavy decorations were overwhelming, as were the smell of perfume and the distinct tang of blood – and he probably wouldn't return to it, but Lady Ygraine had insisted the whole household were to greet her newborn son. Since the incident with the bracelet, Uther strictly forbade him to clean in any of the sleeping chambers, still suspicious that he'd steal the fine rich jewelry his wife and daughters wore and sell it or whatever devious distrustful servants did. Merlin would never steal, never sink so low; he was no thief, but he never said that out loud. Protests were useless and anyway, it was a relief not having to do more work.

"What's its name?" Morgana asked, cooing at the baby.

"This is your brother Leon. Him, Morgana, not it."

Arthur shifted among the shadows and stepped forth, and Merlin couldn't stop looking at him, not even knowing why. The man was so handsome and mysterious and when Merlin's thoughts finally caught up with him, he lowered his gaze, ashamed of himself. No servant should think of their masters (or their masters' sons) that way. Servants like that only caught the attention of trouble.

The blonde man looked at him briefly, before moving to stand on his father's left side, congratulating his parents, leaving Merlin rigid and his chest helplessly aching almost as if he was being strangled.

()()()

**JUNE**

It was strange, walking into the studio that morning. It felt incredibly empty and suddenly soulless. The staged corner which he'd so carefully measured and dusted off was suddenly at disarray: the quills put away, the parchment rolled up neatly; the piece of fabric he had been so vigilant to get right in every fold was gone. For a moment, Merlin just stared at the unfamiliar space, feeling…a sharp sense of sadness and something else tugging at the bottom of his stomach. It wouldn't go away.

"He's finished a painting," explained the lady, the keys in her hands jingling. She usually was the one unlocking and locking the door, though she wasn't allowed to step over the threshold. "Everything is to be put away into those boxes, and the table moved to that wall," she said and pointed. "Open the windows, let in some fresh air."

Merlin nodded mutely. When the lady had gone, he lingered in the doorway for a few more minutes, just staring almost confused and helpless at the corner. The easel was put away, no canvas in sight. He had no idea what the painting had looked like, but if felt somehow _wrong_ to put the items away. It took him far longer than it should have to cross the room and pick up the nearest thing on the table, the parchment. Like having been burned by the touch, he quickly put it down again.

Was it supposed to be simple, after making a painting, to get rid of it? he wondered. He knew the painting had been sold to some rich merchant, and probably no one but Arthur had actually seen it; maybe the lord and lady, but he wasn't sure, as they weren't allowed into the studio. Was it Arthur who had started putting away the things? Had he also hesitated; was that why half of the items still rested on the table and the wall behind wasn't empty yet?

"I suppose I could begin with the windows," he murmured to himself. It was a bit easier. He wouldn't have to let go of anything. The air outside was crisp and cool, a wonder on his cheeks, and as he polished the glass he glanced down at the street below, the people who liked small and insignificant from this height. They were so many…so many people in this one town. He wondered how many towns there were out there and how many people occupied them, with their own lives and worries and happiness and dreams. Was there anyone else out there, in the same position as him, unsure of what to do, unable to do anything but abide by given orders and comply and not question?

He tried not to think about it.

It took almost two hours to clean the room, and afterwards, it felt so strange and drained that for once, Merlin was glad when he was let out again.


	3. July to November

**III.**

**JULY**

Keeping his gift secret was difficult. If he didn't use it, even for the simplest thing like levitating an object an inch above the ground or smoothing out creases to save time ironing, the power tended to burst. It had happened once at home. His mother always stressed his gift must be kept hidden no matter what – he'd refrained from using it for over two weeks. His whole body had ached, his head pounded heavily, and no remedies seemed to help. Finally, like a dam bursting the force had simply broken free, smashing several pots in the room he'd been standing in, to his mother's displeasure and worry.

He could use the gift at night, when the house was asleep and quiet. Then he'd lit and unlit the single candle by the bedside with it, or attempt creating shapes of light from thin air, just to be rid of the tension. All had to be done in complete silence. During the day, he could quicken his chores a bit using it, but he was often in the presence of Gwen – and if things were done too quickly and, perhaps, too well, it would seem suspicious. (Not that anyone complained when the stubborn spots of wine of Lady Ygraine's fine jacket disappeared without a trace.)

Sometimes his gift tended to react instinctively. When he was emotional or angry or tired, it could do things for him, like it had a consciousness which realized that using magic subconsciously to do his chores would make life a little easier – once he'd found that the tear in Morgana's dress collar had mended itself overnight, without any sign of extra thread. (Not that Gwen complained: she'd never think of magic, only assumed he was very handy with needle and thread, and from that morning on he was responsible for the mending _too._)

He forcefully had to hold the magical instincts back, concentrate on it with all of his being to hinder disaster from happening. When serving the family yesterday a glass had been knocked over by one of the children and he had to quietly chant _Don't_! _Don't!_ to not freeze the object in midair, save it, do something. It fell and shattered into a thousand tiny shards and as he'd sweeped them up later, Sophia was chanting apologies in the background under her mother's disapproving stare.

Nobody suspected anything like magic. What reason would they have to do so?

()()()

"Will you not come with us for a ride today?" Uther asked his son, who was sitting in the living room reading a book.

It was somewhat surprising, Merlin thought, that the men appeared to have so little work to do. He didn't know much about the world outside Camelot, but even he had heard rumours about worry and battles in the North, so if it was demanded the eldest son were to fight, it wouldn't surprise him. Though it could be the family was rich enough to bribe their way out of such matters, thanks to Arthur's paintings. Merlin wasn't sure, for at the market one could come upon fine but lifeless paintings that even he could afford, provided he stored away all the pay he received for two or three weeks – not that he had any desire to do so – but Arthur's paintings must be much more costly than that.

"Not today, father, I'm afraid; I'm not in the mood and need to write some letters. Why don't you take Mordred?"

"Very well, then. Mordred! Come downstairs, son."

Merlin heard their voices through the hall, falling to the kitchen where he was working on dinner. Arthur's voice, husky, warm, seemed much louder than Uther's though softer, yet more dominant. It was also more pleasant to listen to. Merlin couldn't get enough of it, no matter how many times he told himself that it was wrong and precarious and only would get him into trouble.

(But what harm could there be in only listening?)

The newest family member's arrival had made almost no changes with their habits. The girls played, inside or outside by the street, or were given lessons in writing, house-holding and sewing; the father left often with his eldest sons.

When the man wasn't out of the house, Merlin avoided him; the man's grey eyes still glared at him warningly every time they passed each other in the corridor; Merlin always reacted a bit too late with bowing his head in respect. There was contempt there, distrust. Gwen knew how uncomfortable Merlin was around the man and she'd said, almost reassuring him: "Everyone fears Uther Pendragon. I cannot see what appeal there is to him in the fine lady's eyes, except the obvious. But I shouldn't talk like this…not of my mistress! Merlin, go fetch some water for me!" before hurriedly returning to chopping vegetables.

Lady Ygraine spent her time with the youngest children. A wet-nurse was always present to take care of Leon, but the child was impatient and loud and screamed through the days. Sometimes through the nights too: the tiny lungs producing a sharp ringing sound which made its way through the ceilings and floors and woke Merlin in the middle of the night, making him unable to go back to sleep. The babe also produced very much more dirty linen and more work. The hours Merlin now spent with the laundry and other such duties were endless and the time he had to do the market rounds shrank. It disappointed him; he liked wandering through the city, see so many faces and smile and for a moment not feel like a servant.

Will wasn't happy when Merlin hadn't time to linger and talk with him when buying meat. Over the weeks, they had built a friendship and the beginnings of something more; Merlin had more than once caught Will's stare lasting on him which made him both uneasy and anticipating.

"We're out of thyme _again_," Gwen muttered searching through the shelves. "Merlin, hurry and buy some. There is a guest coming today so you must wash up a bit, just look at you!" The chiding tone reminded him a bit of his mother's.

"All right." He heaved himself up, drying his face. It felt warm after having leaned over the boiling laundry water all day. "What guest?"

"Sir Cenred of Escetia. He is a respectable man and has been friends of the Pendragons for decades. Now hurry up!" Her words were stressed, Go now!, and made him frown a bit, curious at the unfamiliar name thrown at him.

He was herded out of the back door.

It was nice meeting the apothecary again, though it took awhile for the man to recognize him. He was, after all, quite old. Gaius was talkative and spoke not ill but humoured words about practically every family in Camelot when working, and Merlin got to hear some details about sir Cenred by innocently asking about him, not mentioning the visit. "Oh! I know of him. Petty little bastard, that's what they say," Gaius said and tapped his chin. "Be wary about him, he is like a snake, slithering from your grasp all the while. Oh, here you are. The thyme. I shall put it on the book."

"Why, is he dangerous?" Merlin asked, putting the purchased herbs in a pouch. "Thank you."

The old man squinted at him beneath bushy eyebrows. "Men like him are always dangerous to those unguarded." The look was maybe supposed to mean something, a message.

Merlin nodded carefully, still not having gotten his whole answer but Gwen had told him to hurry, so he couldn't talk any more.

When he asked Gwen for an explanation of the old man's words, she stiffened, as if terribly insulted. Then she lowered her voice, like afraid of being overheard. Instead of talking around the subject as she usually did, she put it short and blunt. "You haven't heard about all the poor naïve boys and girls he's tricked into his bed and then half of which he's left with his bastard children? Well. Now you have. Do not mention a single word of it in front of the Pendragons, do you understand? Their friendship is…_brittle_, but very important. The mistress hates money-trouble and sir Cenred helps avoiding that, thanks to master Arthur's wonderful paintings."

"I'll be careful. I won't say anything," he promised, not looking forward to meeting this man at all.

()()()

Sir Cenred's appearance matched the descriptions. When his lips turned upward with faked glee, there was something dark about it and the way he behaved around Gwen was revolting, the suggestive words, his sneer. Also young Morgana and Sophia probably had an idea what he was on about, judging by their wide eyes and nervous laughter. Luckily, Lady Ygraine interrupted him (calmly and unfazed, never frowning) and suggested they go to the parley, sit and have a glass of wine.

Merlin went to get the wine. While the lady of the house wasn't so fond of it, Uther liked to drink it to his meals and they were never short of it. He located four glasses, polished them with a towel and put them on a tray, while Gwen filled a pitcher. She still looked uncomfortable. "I'll go," Merlin offered and she just nodded.

The four were discussing something apparently deeply, not noticing him when he stepped into the room. He wasn't often in here. The walls were decorated with various portraits of people and places he'd never seen for real (and never would), and heavy curtains in red, silver and gold. The floor was covered by rich carpets, some imported from foreign lands, pure luxury: the fabric itself of that hanging on the wall must have cost a fortune. The gentlefolk with their beautiful layered skirts, glistening pearls, rich shoes and fine gaud embroided jackets completed the picture. Merlin would've liked showing the image to his sister if he could.

When he began pouring the wine in the glasses, sir Cenred looked up, and Merlin shivered at being studied so closely by those cold, lecherous eyes. "When did you get another servant?" the man asked Uther.

Arthur's eyes flickered briefly. Something like discontentment crossed his face, but it simply could've been Merlin's imagination.

"A few months ago," Uther answered. "But he is no one of importance."

The man stared at him fascinated and Merlin, unaccustomed to such attention, accidentally spilled red liquid at the table, slouching over the brim, his grip of the porcelain slipping. "I'm terribly sorry, sirs, mistress," Merlin stammered, attempting to wipe up the mess with a towel. Uther frowned at the embarrassed servant, looking like about to berate him for his stupidity, but remained quiet at his wife's sharp look. The seconds of silence following were worse than being yelled at.

"Inept, perhaps," sir Cenred said, reaching out and stroking Merlin's thigh - Merlin wanted to recoil, violently, but couldn't - "but rather pretty, isn't he, Arthur?"

The artist didn't reply.

"Merlin. You can go. Wash this up later," Lady Ygraine instructed briskly and he left, thankful to be out the man's reach. His skin felt like branded, the unwelcome touch lingering for hours afterwards.

Arthur's gaze followed him: face stony, eyes stormy. Sir Cenred's words burned in his mind. Rather pretty (dangerous to those unguarded, tricking those girls to bed) that new servant, isn't he? echoed and remained, unwanted, unwelcome, and impossible to stop thinking of.

He stayed in the kitchens, helping Gwen tidying up, not leaving the room until he was sure sir Cenred had departed from the building.

()()()

The morning was colder than usual this time of year, the sky clouded. It had rained during the night and the streets were not yet dry. When on his way to the well for fresh water for the cooking today, Merlin was surprised to see Will. His apron was clean now, and he had a small package with him which he was to deliver.

"You look tired," he said. "Let me help with that."

Merlin objected stubbornly that he wasn't a weakling who couldn't carry some water, but Will lifted one of the buckets anyway, not listening.

"If they see you come back to the house with me they'll get suspicious," Merlin said as the butcher's son fell into step with him.

Will laughed a bit. "They'll probably not recognize me at all. Don't worry. That kind of people wouldn't recognize _themselves_ if they didn't look into the mirror every morning."

That made Merlin chuckle. However, Will's mood shifted, as he looked the servant over. It was difficult to read what he was thinking. "You have dark rings under your eyes, your shoulders are constantly slumped. They're overworking you." He sounded concerned.

"It's fine, just a lot to do now when lady Ygraine has delivered."

Will had with no doubt heard about the family's newest addition through all the gossiping on the street. He'd more than once said how much you learned by simply standing behind a counter – the people willing to throw a word against someone else were innumerable.

"The lady isn't unkind and Gwen is very helpful," Merlin added, not wanting Will to believe he was complaining about the lady. She was, what he had seen, rather kind and thoughtful, though they rarely interacted – she didn't deserve anyone's criticism.

"An odd lady she is," Will mused. "People yet wonder why she married that man, when her father could have ensured her something better, from a social point of view anyway – and probably economically, come think of it. It's with good reason people wonder!" There was a slight scorn in the tone.

Merlin chose not to comment.

"Well then. Here we are," the butcher's son said as they stopped by the gates. "I must go now." Before he walked away, he laid an arm across Merlin's back and leaned in, a half embrace which was over as soon as it started, so Merlin hadn't a chance to speak up. There was a ghosting breath across his cheek, the hint of stubble, a musky quite pleasant scent and then just cool air against his skin.

Merlin's heartbeat was suddenly quick in his ribcage, almost painful.

()()()

He hadn't meant for it to happen. If he could turn back time then he would go to this exact moment and re-do everything. But it happened swiftly, before he had been able to formulate a thought and hinder himself.

The lady was out with some friends for once and the children had gone with her. Only Arthur and Uther were in the house, the latter to reply to letters and read in his study and Arthur was like a shade, moving from place to place without a certain goal. The man appeared to have little to do, and Merlin wondered why he hadn't gone out to socialize or take a ride or whatever men like him did, why he wasn't in the studio before a canvas, but never asked. He'd never spoken with the man, probably wouldn't either. They were as different as night and day.

He was cleaning the hall. The children had left a mess and it was dusty in the corners – proper and loyal as she was, Gwen sometimes traipsed with her duties, tired and older than she really was. The hall was a very beautiful room, high in the ceiling, but its size was muted by dark colours and heavy furniture. A handful of ornamental objects stood upon a table on the right side of the door, in need of polishing. He lifted one up, turning slightly toward the light from the window.

Then by mistake he knocked over the green vase with the handle; it fell, tumbling through the air and without a thought he caught it, his magic pulsating in his hand as he reached out, grasping nothing.

The object hovered frozen in midair, time not functioning properly around it. And then Arthur stepped into the room.

He stared.

Merlin stared back. Mute. All air rushing out of his lungs like they had been stepped upon. His whole world shriveled to fit into this room, point focused on him, on Arthur, the vase still frozen.

Oh god, he thought. Oh god. He was going to be fired and dragged away like a criminal and executed and dead and he would never see his sister get well again, oh god no, _Arthur had seen his magic._

The blonde man didn't speak, at all, just looked at him with very blue eyes and so many emotions swirled there: confusion, pity, fascination, dread. The look was terrifyingly intense. Merlin gripped the piece of cloth so hard the knuckles whitened.

The vase still hung there in midair, frozen by Merlin's horror.

"Say something," Merlin said at last, "please." Drawing it out would only be painful.

Like snapped out of slumber Arthur flinched and glanced at the open door, beyond which his father was working, oblivious. Unknowing. He could yell Sorcerer! and call for soldiers and men could come crashing into the house, grab Merlin, take him away. He could tell his father, have the man rushing out of the study, incredulous and angry. He could take up a weapon, his sword, anything, and run Merlin through in blind shock and rage without having need to feel guilt. There was so much he could do and Merlin felt, just like when his mother gave him the news under the May sun, when he walked down the stairs to never return, hopeless in the hands of fate.

"There is nothing to say."

()()()

He was going to be turned in. Merlin was sure of it. Any minute now. Just wait. Any moment, through the door; armed men, pitchforks and torches, Sorcerer! Sorcerer! being cried through the streets, the hallways, the anger and disappointment, Arthur's heavy angry stare.

There was nothing.

Just like it had been for the last four hours of staring at the door, apprehensively; Merlin was fretting too much to be able to focus. Why was no one coming? Why hadn't Arthur yelled at him, demanded he'd leave at once? Why had…? Why _hadn't_…?

Gwen found him sitting in the workroom practically attacking the linen, and asked if there was anything upsetting him, else he'd not be so violent. He shook his head, didn't answer. His magic – Arthur knew of his magic.

Why was there _nothing and no one_ at all reacting at this discovery? Where were the angry cries, the swords of the city guards being drawn? Where were the ringing, chaotic bells, the armed guards, their spears, their voices shouting in his ear? Was this Arthur's way of torturing him?

He'd said, 'There is nothing to say.' Merlin was unsure if he could hope that meant, '…Because I shall keep your secret.' No man kept a secret guarded without demand for explanation, without expecting equilibrium, not without payment in return of such a dangerous pledge. Not a servant's secret. Never a servant's secrets. Servants were meant to be obedient and perfect, not meant to hide anything from their masters, not meant to be breaking the law.

He was never been meant to be a servant. He's not a very good servant, Merlin reflected quietly; his heart is never in it, he doesn't dedicate himself like Guinevere. His loyalty does not lie with master or lady Pendragon, not with their youngsters, not with their family crest.

_Arthur_. Those damned dreams, slipping through the day, through his heart. _Arthur_, they always whispered, through his trembling bones when he couldn't sleep, the dreams lingering; and _Will,_ he sometimes thought, longingly, body warm at the name: but never _Pendragon_, never.

"Merlin."

The dreaded words. A single uttered word of attention. "Yes?"

"Master Arthur wants to speak with you," Gwen said. She had no idea what was going on, but she looked at him concernedly, like asking 'What have you done?'

The torment had to be over.

()()()

"I am going to ask some questions and you will answer. Truthfully. No lies. Calling for the guards is easy, but I have pondered what I saw, and there was no evil transpiring."

Merlin nodded mutely.

"_Why_ do you use…?" Arthur gestured with his hands, emphasizing words not even uttered. He didn't dare in this house, under this roof.

"I was born like this. I can't help it. It was instinct." The excuse felt worthless and it was difficult to explain. He'd never told anybody about his secret. Never revealed himself like this - it felt so private, it was maybe even worse than being touched, sir Cenred's hand burning on his thigh.

"I thought they were only myths," the blonde man murmured, leaning back into the chair when the information sank in, _I was born like this, with this power_ – "No real sorcerers have been caught for years. Decades. Maybe even centuries: the records are quite clear. Only people with petty powers, unable to do any real harm (never escaping the dungeons or the hangman). What I saw today, you just reacted…you didn't speak a spell or enchantment. Didn't do anything but turn around. You just…" His words died, half-way out of his throat. Your eyes, the man looked about to say, your eyes glowed golden.

Merlin inhaled, exhaled sharply. "I know."

"And it's always been like that?"

"Always."

"That's dangerous. Such power could be misused, sought after by people for their own gain."

"Yes. I know."

"Be careful. I henceforth forbid you to use your…_gift_…" – the word seemed difficult to say, tongue twisting – "…unless it is truly necessary and if possible not even then. You must control yourself better. Next time it might not be me who happens upon you." Next time. Next time.

He isn't going to give me in, Merlin thought, overwhelmed and dazed. He's not going to. "You're not going to have me executed?" he asked silently, surprised. Why would a man with such a close hand to the law protect him like this? It felt surreal. A dream.

"Why would someone like you, who probably can do more than I can guess or imagine, in the blink of an eye do all work need to be done and more – why would you scrub the floors of another's home and wash their linen day out and day in for months, without complaint, get your hands dirty and rough? Would you watch after children they do not know and run errands for strangers you call your masters? Would someone evil do that?"

"…I suppose not," Merlin said, weakly.

"Be careful. You might not always be as lucky as you are now."

()()()

He was still alive. He was still walking, not condemned, and still breathing.

The initial few days after the incident with Arthur and his gift, he had been on edge, not really believing it was true. The conversation had been so bizarre, too affirmative to have been real. But the rest of the world carried on as was normal: there was no change in the house, in Sophia's glares, Uther's distrust, Gwen chattering. There was no change in washing and cleaning and running errands and no one sent him second glances on the street.

Once that fact had been established – he was alive and would stay that way - Merlin finally could sleep without worried dreams. He slept through Leon's screaming and the footsteps padding below for the first time in weeks, and greeted the following day vigilant and well-rested.

Arthur openly continued to treat him like the lady Ygraine did: sparing him little more than a glance when he was in the same room, but doing so without scorn. However, the blonde man's eyes were intense; it was like he was observing him to see if he used his gift, if he really was careful, if he was dangerous. They didn't speak much. The boundary between master and servant were yet too sharp, and none dared to cross it. Merlin began to wonder what exactly Arthur thought of him – was he just a servant? Something else? Was there trust, or distrust, now when his gift had been revealed?

His magic made everything more complex than they should have been.

()()()

**AUGUST**

It was inevitable, introducing William to his mother. It was a busy market day but Thomas excused his son when Merlin arrived, this time accompanied by a dark-haired woman with similar features to his own, whose gaze flickered (worriedly, knowingly, not ready but accepting the inevitable) between Merlin and the butcher's son. Merlin had no choice but lead Will to the crook of the street, where there were less people and they could talk.

Will was happy to meet the woman, charmingly smiling and bowing like she was a noble, before smiling up at Merlin, standing very close. He liked to talk, overlooking Hunith's hesitation and awkwardness: he knew how to interact with people. It was also then, as Merlin felt the expectation laced within the kindness of Will's eyes focused upon him, he began to fear, realizing the implications of that one look.

Hunith realized it too, without doubt.

After Will had to leave (a hand briefly on Merlin's arm, auburn eyes twinkling, "I'll see you soon"), Merlin lingered a bit longer, not wanting to go back to the house.

"Do not worry, mother. You won't lose me," the boy mumbled.

But her face was sad, old, as she took his worn hands (skin rough, nails broken) into her own. She didn't look him in the eye as she spoke, and that hurt the most. "I already have, Merlin. I lost you the moment you became a servant."

()()()

Then Freya fell ill. When he came to visit the same week as meeting his mother on the market, the girl lay feverish and frail wrapped in blankets and at seeing her, he panicked, dropping to his knees by the bedside.

"Mother?" he asked, weakly. "How long has she been like this?"

"Four days." None of the herbs had helped. She had an accident when playing with some other children on the street, cutting her leg. The ground was dirty and she'd not told Hunith for over a day, too stubborn, not wanting to worry her, gone on with her play. And then the fever had set in, her eyes misty and limbs weak.

"I could try…" He gestured with his hands, pleadingly.

"Merlin…" his mother sighed. "That's dangerous." (That's dangerous: Arthur looking at him, concernedly, People would seek that kind of power for their own gain.)

"Please. Let me try." He looked up at her with large eyes, earnest, upset, "Please, mother. She's my sister. You and she are all I've got. Please, I have to…" Try, let me try.

Hunith went to close all the shutters and locked the door.

Merlin put his hands on either side of Freya's head. He knew no words, no spells to weave; only the pure power within his blood and, reaching for it with a purpose he called it forth. It obeyed, his eyes golden, tendrils of energy burning paths through his blood. It filled him with purpose and energy and life, and many would have winced in fear at such a feeling, but he embraced it gladly.

There was no immediate change, but his mother refused to let him try again. When he left a few hours later, Freya still hadn't woken up.

()()()

It was agonizing having to wait another seven days until seeing his sister, to know if she was all right, if she even was alive. His mother had said she would stay at Freya's side all time and not go down to the city market unless in dire need of something and they hadn't met by coincidence at the marketplace a single time. Merlin was constantly troubled and distracted, and for the tenth time that day, Gwen scolded him for slacking when mending the clothing and nearly burning the meat and then slightly cutting his own finger when chopping vegetables, droplets of red falling onto the work surface.

"Merlin! Focus. This mistress will be livid if she finds you're ruining the food."

"I'm sorry. I have a lot on my mind."

"So I notice. But a servant never let their thoughts divert them from their work." With a sigh, she took the knife from him. "I'll finish this. Clean your hands and go see if you can take in the linen instead. Don't stain anything!"

The sun was fairly low on the sky, reflecting like glass on the canal. Lifting down and folding linen was an automatic task and trying to keep his thoughts from his family, he looked at the water with its passing boats. Normally it would have been calming, but now he only grew more stressed.

He _had_ to see her.

Next morning, when he was sent down to the market, Will spotted his frown and asked what was wrong: he was the only thing close to a friend Merlin had now, and he didn't hesitate much to reveal the truth.

"I will go check on both her and your mother," Will said, a promise, "after my duties today."

No promise came without a cost, no deal existed without payment. Merlin didn't want to be indebted to anyone, but Will's tone posed no room for objection. "Thank you," Merlin said instead. "It means a lot."

"I know," the butcher's son said with deep understanding. "The family is the most important thing, isn't it?"

"Yes. Definitely."

Will laid a hand on his arm, almost guiding, trying to move him closer. "Are you in a hurry back to the house?"

Merlin swallowed, seeing that look again – did Will want what he seemed to? – the thought was frightening, yet, somehow tempting, part of Merlin wished to know how it felt like being desired by another, their body close to his own - "I'm afraid I can't linger anymore; I have made a mess of myself this week as it already is. Gwen will be mad if I'm late again. I'll hurry to be back tomorrow," he said.

The butcher's son carried the distinct odor of blood and the smell of an overworked man, but beneath it was a musky sandalwood and mead-like scent – almost … pleasant.

"I'll be waiting."

Will used to take a quick pause in his work to greet him, also when Merlin was buying fish on the other side of the plaza. Always having an eye out for him, looking, waiting. Always present in the corner of Merlin's eye.

"I know."

He patted the servant's arm comfortingly as goodbye. "I'm sure your sister will be all right."

()()()

Normally, no one but himself climbed up to the tiny attic, leaving him alone there, as it was empty except for a few old boxes stored there, with things no one had use for anyone but they hadn't the heart to throw away.

His pack had been torn open, its contents spread over the floor. At his sight, his heartbeat picked up, growing hot in startled panic. He owned little, and couldn't easily replace any of his possessions. Dropping onto his knees, breathing deeply to attempt to calm his hands, he began collecting the items. The clothes were wrinkled and the shirt stained with mud, but none were missing. He checked through all of his belongings to be sure.

But the wooden dragon, his only physical memory of his father, was gone.

Nowhere in the pack, he checked twice, thrice; he opened the nearby storage boxes despite knowing he wasn't allowed to, but it wasn't there. Perhaps it was childish, perhaps it was a silly weakness to be so attached to an inanimate object, but something in his chest cracked and his eyes watered.

_(He could so clearly remember, it'd been a sunny September day and Balinor had just come home from a trip to the market; Merlin was bouncing on the stairs by the door, rushing up to the man when he rounded the corner; he'd shrieked with laughter as his father put down the package he'd been holding to meet the embrace, lifted him up and spun him around. It was a happy fraction of a moment and he clung to it; his father's strong hands beneath his arms, and his voice husky and kind. "Here, I have a gift for you, son." _

_With wide eyes Merlin had accepted the wooden toy, staring at it and then his father unwaveringly, silently like compensating something. Then his face had broken into a wide grin and he gave all those thank you's and hugs that his father could have suffocated him them._

_The man died three weeks later from a wound, he'd been in a fight and the other man had had a knife; Merlin didn't know the details, but remembering hanging by the handle anxiously, scared, alone, and his mother's tears. He remembered the silence laden with grief and how Freya and he were embraced by their mother, how people glanced and no one said anything directly and he remembering trembling horribly when Hunith murmured; "He's sleeping now.")_

()()()

The next morning, as he cleaned the studio, carefully and slowly, he let the measurements and details and how the light fell through the windows occupy his mind fully and push away the tears. Crying would make no difference.

()()()

Will had news for him and he worked quickly to serve another customer while Merlin waited near the stand, anxious, uncharacteristically hurriedly dismissing everyone as soon as they had bought what they'd come for instead of listening to their chatter. But there was relief and assurance in his expression.

"Your sister is fine. She has recovered almost completely."

Merlin smiled wide, in pure relief. Whether by magic or not, Freya had healed. The thought warmed his heart immensely. "Thank you, Will," he said. "For letting me know."

By the look on Will's face he expected something in return and Merlin's heartbeat, which had dropped in respite by the good news, quickened again, nervously this time. It was so obvious what the butcher's son wanted and he felt unsure of what to do, what to say. The answer was clear in his head, a whisper, Will's auburn warm eyes meeting his own.

He couldn't stay here pondering options. What to or not to do. A hand came up to rest on his upper arm, clasping it firmly.

"Merlin," Will said quietly, a husky tone glimpsing, and Merlin looked at the sun to determine how much it had shifted – for once, things were calmer at the house, and he had more time at the market. There was time and Will looked at him with those fervent eyes: and everything felt like it was a little too late. Just because his mother had said that he was lost to her already. He was in another world now, separated from her, from Freya, everyone.

He hated being indebted to people.

"Come with me," Merlin murmured, and led the butcher's son away from the marketplace, to the corner of a crooked alley. Will briefly washed his hands in a bucket of water behind the stand as his father came to take his place.

He didn't need to say much – when understanding, Will was more than willing and ran his hands over Merlin's body. Merlin didn't complain nor verbally give admission, as the young man's hands glided down his side, the curve of his back, his flat stomach. He shivered: a tremble which Will mistook for one of pleasure. He pressed closer up against the servant's body. Merlin tried to like it, but his thoughts strayed to straw-blonde hair and blue eyes and made it only painful, a sharp tug in his chest, making him gasp and shut his eyes tightly.

(Betrayal? Was this it? Was this betraying? ...Arthur didn't ... and he would never... What did it matter anyway in a world such as this?)

Will's breath ghosted across the shell of his ear, his cheek, his temple. He was so close, too close, but Merlin's voice died in his throat, he didn't stop him. He owed Will this, for letting him know his sister was all right, he did, he did - but didn't want to. Every touch implicated so much more, and it made this so difficult. He was lost now, to another world; he knew that as a butcher Will wouldn't let their stomachs be achingly empty; yet, the words, the whispers of what happened to youngsters acting like this, like him, refused to leave his mind. He wasn't a…

Nobody had ever touched him like this before. He'd never allowed it before. (…Cenred's hand on his thigh, burning, the man's unwelcome grip, his leer, the cold eyes - the memory penetrated his skull and for a moment he was afraid William could see it.)

Will didn't know. If he did, the fact did not stop him, didn't make him falter and touch him more tenderly. Will's hands were large and firm, and though they'd been recently washed, blood had stuck underneath the nail bands. They moved across and down over Merlin's body through the layers of clothing, stroking every lean curve, seeking to undo the neckerchief but, then, Merlin managed to move, pushing away the hands and shaking his head. He wouldn't give all Will wanted, not yet.

"I want to look at you," Will said, gaze lingering on Merlin's covered neck. He let his hands rest on Merlin's waist, and the heat of them penetrated the clothing, scorching his skin, his bones. Movements grew erratic and rough when Will shifted his hips, muscles contracting, and to feel the man's eagerness pushed up against him was slightly terrifying.

"Let me look at you, please, Merlin."

Again, he shook his head. Will was persistent: a pair of fingers stroking his jaw, lower, down beneath the fabric. But when Merlin allowed him to kiss him, he stopped asking and let the clothing stay closed. The man bit his lip in fervour, but Merlin swallowed the sound of pain, a bitter metallic tinge covering his tongue.

"One day, Merlin," Will murmured huskily as he withdrew slightly, "you won't hide anything from me."

The soft-spoken words, unhesitant, were like footsteps announcing the end was near. Merlin tried to shy away, but Will leaned in again, a forceful tongue against pliant lips and realizing that it was too late now, he gave in to the kiss.

()()()

"We need salmon and onion, and woolen yarn, so visit the spinner. Morgause has gotten that horrid cough again, poor child, so you need to go to the apothecary..."

It was yet morning, so Merlin looked at Gwen, surprised. He never ran errands that early; it would interrupt washing the linen. The housemaid continued a long list of duties and purchases, and by the end, added, "My mistress said you can visit your family after the rounds. They live not far from the marketplace, don't they? We don't need you back for a few hours."

Merlin frowned. He had never been allowed to be gone for such a long time, even less visit his mother in the middle of the week. "All right," he said gingerly, quickly folding the last shirt in a pile so it could be sorted into the armoire. "But why? It's yet early…and I'm usually never given permission to visit-"

"Don't ask questions." Gwen handed him a pail and a basket. "Go."

However he wanted answers, he didn't like being unknowing. A wave of realization hit him, and he paused in the doorway from the kitchen. "Is sir Cenred coming to visit?"

Gwen sighed. "Lady Ygraine is not comfortable with you near him, considering your last encounter. Just go now." She went back to work, picking up the linen he had folded, clearly dismissing him. No more questions.

()()()

His mother was surprised to see him that day, though glad. Her face was more relaxed than before, lighting up with a smile at the sight of him. "I suppose you know that Freya is well again?" were her first words when he arrived, pail full of fish.

"Yes. The butcher's son told me." He didn't elaborate, didn't want her to know (the alleyway, Will's hands, warm, fierce) for she would fret too much.

"He came to visit two days ago, telling me you were so worried. (Such a charming young man he is!) But why are you here? It's not yet Sunday."

He avoided the question, not wanting to talk about sir Cenred, and said instead, smiling slightly, "Am I not allowed coming to my own home and visiting my family?"

"Of course you are, Merlin." Hunith patted his cheek. "Freya is inside. She probably wants to see you."

()()()

**SEPTEMBER**

The warmest days of the year had come and faded and leaves had lost their lush green colour, creating a mat of red and brown by their roots. The wet-nurse caring for Leon still lived with them, sharing Gwen's sleeping quarters in the cellar, making the servant-girl mutter behind her back but within Merlin's hearing range – "She's always up and about, to give Leon the breast, then when she's asleep she snores like a bear, it's insufferable!" - The nurse was to stay for many months still, much to Gwen's agony.

Days were insignificant. But Merlin caught himself wishing for Arthur to acknowledge him (confront him, say a single word, anything, he could yell in anger over whatever), because it was becoming unbearable to be quietly watched all the time. All since the discovery and their conversation, he'd felt it like a pricking in his neck. If Arthur had nothing to remark on him or his magic, he could just leave him be, stop staring.

Deep in his chest, he feared that there was another, more carnal reason that the blonde man was watching (did he know about the butcher's son, the touches, the kisses Merlin now had granted him?) endlessly, driving him mad. He couldn't sleep at night.

"Will you stop it?" he muttered once, then, when Arthur stood in the doorway as Merlin was scrubbing the floor, finally having enough and daring to speak up when no one else was present. "Don't prats like you have better things to do?"

He definitely shouldn't speak like that to lord Uther's son. The words slipped out before he could stop them.

Arthur snorted. Amused. "You fascinate me, Merlin." He remembered his name? He'd never said Merlin's name before. "You're so quiet most of the time but then, sometimes, I glimpse what's beneath that, like the fire necessary to make iron. There's a lot going on in your mind. A lot that you hide."

He was surprised to hear such an honest, close-to-home description from those lips, and paused in his work, looking up. "…Why do you care? I'm … I'm just a servant. And you are…" A nobleman's son, a mystery, an annoyance (arrogant but kind, husky voiced, demanding but in a silent sort of way, handsome) never leaving him be – why should he care about a servant?

Merlin didn't know which words to choose.

"I've already told you. You're fascinating."

"So it has nothing to do with my gift?"

Cold silence met his words.

"You shouldn't speak so openly about that," Arthur eventually said.

"Only you would know what I'm talking about," Merlin countered.

"True." Arthur shifted, away from the doorway; there were footsteps in the hall: Gwen was returning, lady Ygraine speaking to her. They heard girls' voices drifting over; the children were squabbling again about something trivial. Morgause was wailing, setting off Leon too, the wet-nurse scrambling to soothe the infant.

Without saying anything more, not properly finishing the conversation, Arthur left, Merlin's shoulders sagging. The blonde man's shadow seemed to linger, forever burned into the wall, and Merlin kept his gaze fixed at it for several minutes, remembering exactly how Arthur's hands had moved while he talked and the crease above the knee in his trousers and his blue kind eyes, and he thought, terrified at the intensity of this feeling growing in his heart – God, no, please, _no_.

()()()

Will suspected something. He noticed the change in Merlin's posture and eyes, the way he shifted, gaze flickering when they kissed. "What's bothering you?" he asked quietly, pulling him aside into the nook between two stalls. "I can see it, don't try and deny it."

"Nothing."

"Your sister isn't ill again is she?" Will asked, genuinely concerned for the girl's well-being.

Merlin shook his head jerkily. "No. She's fine."

"Then what is it?"

"…Nothing. Just…A lot on my mind right now. Please, Will, leave it be."

Will slid an arm behind his back, soothingly. "I don't like seeing you upset. If there is something wrong, tell me. Is it the Pendragons? Have they done anything to you?" A hint of anger slipped into the tone, like a warning.

_Have they done anything to you?_

Merlin wanted to say (it was so difficult to explain) - They have done everything to me.

He smiled to put the man's mind at rest: "No. Don't worry. It's all right."

()()()

Sir Cenred came to visit twice that month. Lady Ygraine realized that it was impractical sending Merlin on errands for whole days, there was only so much he could do and in the house there was work to be done. After serving the food, he would draw back to the workroom and out to the back yard.

It was cold outside, but sunny, and they still could hang the linen to dry outside. When winter came they would have to hang it in front of the fireplace. The chilly air pierced his clothing, and he subtly raised his magic from within: warmth spread through his fingers like from an invisible flame. He relished at the small comfort as he continued to hang the linen.

"Oh, but isn't it the pretty servant? Where did you go? Your company was sorely missed," drawled a voice and before he could react, he was grabbed from behind. Rough sharp-nailed hands worked their way beneath his jacket and shirt, and Merlin protested violently, a coarse cry falling past his lips.

"Let go of me!"

"Stop struggling," Cenred muttered in his ear, kissing the skin. Merlin shivered in disgust. "It will be more fun if you concede." The man tugged at the fabric of his trousers, chuckling quietly. Cold hands, rough at the edges, came into contact with skin, the shock of it making him buckle. Merlin felt sick.

"Stop it!" He tried to punch the man, but his hand was caught, and god damn it, he wanted to burn and crumble the man that moment, do anything, anything, even if he'd get killed for using sorcery – he didn't know if he cared. He'd rather be executed than let the man touch him. "Stop! Let go!"

"Do as he says, Cenred."

The voice was very calm and commanding. In the doorway, unexpected, was Arthur, and though there was no weapon in his hands the tone he used revealed he wouldn't hesitate – again, he spoke: "Let him go."

Grunting, sir Cenred's grip lightened and Merlin stepped back, away from him, brushing into the stony wall of the house and it had never before felt so welcome. "Well, it wouldn't do to upset milord's delicate senses," the man said darkly, and with one last look at the servant he turned his heel and hurried past Arthur. The man in the doorway didn't stop him.

Merlin avoided looking at Arthur. His neck burned in shame having been seen like that. It felt even worse than the touches themselves. And causing such dislike between sir Cenred and Arthur only added to his humiliation. Most masters would be angered that a servant caused such trouble and have them thrown out of the house, onto the street, what did it matter he wouldn't have anything to live by?

Arthur didn't say anything. After a moment of looking at Merlin – who was desperately buttoning up his shirt and pulling at the hem, trying to hide forever, where sunlight wouldn't reach him - the man turned and left.


	4. December

**IV.**

**DECEMBER**

The exact moment was vague, but after his mother meeting Will, the butcher's son would join them some Sundays for dinner. In the beginning, conversations were awkward and tense; no man had paid such attention to one of Hunith's children before, as Merlin was her eldest, she didn't know how to show approval or otherwise. Will was a good man and kind, enduring when Hunith fell into uncomfortable silence, easily conversing, genuinely praising how fine her little home was. Though so small, the house was loved and well taken care of. Once even Will's father had come to visit introducing himself to Merlin's mother, and that one time, Merlin had faltered at the doorstep; uncertain, a bit fearful of the future and heart beating a bit faster. He was no seer, but he was rather certain of what would come, of the question Will one near way would ask.

Afterward, Merlin would walk with the butcher's son back toward the city center, side by side, a shoulder occasinally bumping into his own. Will talked teasingly when they met on the market, laughing or leaning in like for an embrace. But then he'd lay a hand briefly on Merlin's upper arm or waist, and they would slip into an alleyway and he let Will kiss and touch him where he wanted, strong firm strokes down his back and arms through the fabrics.

Because he knew. Knew how the man's thoughts trailed and the world worked and although Will was a butcher's son, Merlin was a mere servant. By allowing him this, in the long run Merlin's family wouldn't have to go by merely a servant's pay and the small coins that his mother sometimes managed to gather.

Sometimes the butcher's son sent an extra piece of meat with him, to take to his mother at Sundays. He disliked it, though it fed his family and, anyway, Will wouldn't let him refuse such a gift. Merlin didn't want his family to depend on charity - on him allowing the butcher's son kiss him in the shadows of a dirty lane - but he knew there was little choice now and he wasn't emotionless: every time he met the butcher's son his heart felt a bit warmer and maybe, hopefully this feeling could push away all those he shouldn't have.

His mother never asked aloud, but she probably knew.

()()()

"It's your birthday soon, isn't it?" Will said once after pulling him into the shadows and kissing him. It was cold: rare snow had begun to fall, the streets slowly being covered in a white blanket, and Merlin wore practically all the clothes he owned to keep out the chilly winds that found all crooks and turns of the street.

"Yes." He would turn seventeen in five days. He didn't even ask how come Will knew: maybe his mother had told him.

"We should marry."

Merlin's stomach twisted, but the reaction went unnoticed; the light was too dim for them to properly be able to see each other's faces. "We could start our own business, have a family, take charge of our lives," Will continued. "You wouldn't have to be a servant anymore."

He could say, 'I'm too young,' though he'd soon be too old for that excuse.

He could say, 'I'm not ready…I can't - we've not known each other for that long…' but, then again, it was far too late for him now to turn his back on Will. He'd lost all chance to meet someone else, fall in love and marry them. It was too late, when he allowed Will to touch and kiss him. He felt no more worthy, no cleaner than the wenches in the lower town. He could never… never. (Arthur.) ... All else was … impossible.

He could say, 'I do not wish to leave them, I live a fine life anyway' but it wasn't really true, his back constantly aching and hands dry and rough, would that change if he married Will? Would his life have fewer burdens, or more?

He wanted to say, 'I'm in love with Arthur Pendragon as well as you, Will, and_ I can't _- I don't want to choose' but such words were empty and useless. No one would listen to and believe them. Even if they did the words would only bring pain and misery; it was better with silence, it was better to hold William's hand and let the man lead him away.

Merlin looked down at his feet. "…Mother has to approve first," he said at length, despite the fact that she already had, for she had little other choice. It was usually how things turned out, when a poor family's youngster was courted. Especially if there was no father to complain.

"Don't worry," Will murmured and kissed him again, trailing down over his jaw. "It'll turn out wonderful, I promise." His father had probably made all plans already and Hunith couldn't deny this chance of giving her son a home and husband and food everyday on the table. She thought, _everyone would think_, it would bring safety and happiness and everything would be all right.

"I'll make you happy."

The cold was bothering like an itch, constant and out of reach. Will buried his fists as long as he could underneath Merlin's jacket, savouring the heat.

()()()

"My mistress wants to grand celebration this year. There's so much to be done. Tomorrow two servants will come to help with the preparations," Gwen said, pulling out a pan from a cupboard. "Make sure they don't ruin the kitchen while I'm not here, Merlin."

The Pendragons liked celebrating. After Leon's birth there had been a large dinner, unfamiliar people coming to visit, laughter and clinkering glasses – Merlin had spent that whole day in the kitchen and the day before on the market, as they seemed out of everything. When Mordred turned fourteen there was twice as much work to do, errands to run, the house had to be spotless on her big day. The boy was showered in attention and gifts, which he didn't seem too happy to receive, his face darkened in a frown (the family pretended not to notice). The girls were given similar treatment when they grew, though they were much happier at the attention.

Now Arthur was going to become twenty, and settle down in his own home, his own household. At least that was expected of him. All kinds of rumours filled the street - he was a well-known artist and son of an influential man, after all – about his past and present, about the great spectacle waiting at the Pendragon mansion, about his future. Whenever that unknown girl Arthur was betrothed to (though that subject had never been brought up in the house, so it could simply be empty talking) was mentioned, Merlin turned his head, not wanting to listen anymore.

Naturally, Will had heard about it and laughed; "She's probably as spoiled as he is!" – Merlin, pulling a face, uncomfortable, had looked away, not beeing able to laugh with him.

()()()

Will was a good man, but he also was getting impatient, and Merlin felt it in his touches in the alley, fiercer than they had to be. He'd lower his hand to the curve of Merlin's back and press him close, so that he felt the bulge of Will's crotch through layers of clothing press against his abdomen, and the kisses were long and deep. He'd take Merlin's hands and place them on his sides, attempting to make him return the touches, and he did, responding by pressing back.

The touches weren't always repulsive.

The man leaned in close, breathing heavily: he had spoken about marriage again, about sovereignty and breaking free. Merlin had listened, smiled sadly, repeated an old excuse, "...One day…not yet…too young", feeling lost. How could he choose? He didn't want to choose, between leaving and leaving.

"I'll make you happy, Merlin," Will had promised over again, all these words, fallen into his lap: it was all words and no real guarantee, but Will's words were passionate and almost true. "I'll make _us_ happy."

It should've been such an easy choice. But it wasn't.

()()()

For the first time in months he wasn't going alone to the market; Morgana, stubborn like her father, had pleaded to go with him and lady Ygraine had given in. Why, he was unsure, but at least it wasn't Sophia. The girl was not very talkative, but her eyes regarded everyone and everything curiously, including himself. Her face twisted in revulsion when they went to the meat stalls, and Merlin wondered again why she had wanted to come.

"Why hello, if it isn't the birthday child!" Thomas greeted.

Morgana looked surprised.

Merlin ignored the man's remark. He didn't want to be reminded. "Some beef and ten sausages, please."

"To celebrate?" the man winked. "I shall have to tell my son to get a proper gift for you."

When the man turned to fetch the meat, Morgana looked up at him, asking, "It's your birthday?"

He had never bothered to tell anyone and it's not like it mattered, anyway; no one in the house would ever ask for such irrelevant information. "In a few days."

"Are you going to have a feast?"

He smiled, shaking his head. "I doubt that."

"Can I give you a present?"

I barely know this child, but she still cares, Merlin thought, both bemused and surprised at the girl's honesty. There was no hint of disdain or scorn. In a way, Morgana reminded him of Freya. "You don't have to bother," he said. "It's not a very special birthday."

Morgana thoughtfully chewed her bottom lip. "That's what Gwen said too when I asked about hers."

Thomas returned, the meat fine and rich, and he packaged it quickly (he had gotten into habit of letting Merlin inspect the meat every time, unlike with Gwen, who had simply waved a hand at what she wanted and then not spared it a second thought).

"Have a good day, Merlin," he said, eyes clear, much like his son's. Had Will told him anything about the times they sneaked into the alleyways, hiding from the rest of the world? Did he know? Had he spoken with Hunith, made plans?

"Likewise."

The man winked (an uncanny impression of his son). He's talked with Mother, Merlin realized with emergent dread, _he's talked with her._

()()()

The last three days before the Pendragons' feast, everyone was busy. One of the servants temporarily hired – one girl and one boy – was terribly slow, and Merlin had to tell him almost word-by-word what to do (during the first hour the boy had already broken two plates). Food had to be prepared, the house properly cleaned, the finest old silverware taken out and polished. Various deliveries were made and among the apprentices coming in the stead of their masters bringing goods, Will had come, newly fallen snow in his hair. He talked to Gwen as he unloaded, greeted the lady Ygraine (who was scrutinizing the servants' work) politely, and turned to Merlin with a wide smile, wondering if they had time to talk.

"Not right now, it's very hectic," Merlin muttered, flickering to look at Gwen who stood impatiently in the doorway. "Maybe I could..."

The housemaid's brow knotted. "Merlin, don't stand there chitchatting! Come and help Gilli in the kitchen before he ruins it completely!"

Merlin looked at Will apologetically, and the young man looked back in sympathy. "I'll be waiting by the well for a while…"

"I'll see if I can come," the servant said, smiling a bit and then giving Will a caring look. "But if I don't appear, don't linger too long all right? You'll catch ill."

Gwen's impatience was turning into true frustration_._ "We don't have all day!"

Merlin found it difficult to tear his gaze away from Will's face.

()()()

The butcher's son still waited by the well almost an hour later, jumping on the spot to preserve warmth. At seeing him, cloaked and with a cap over his head, Will hurried up to Merlin and embraced him, arms like a shield. The street was empty, people not wanting to be outside in this chilly weather, yet, Merlin felt like being watched. Lips pressed against his, wetly, hurriedly.

"I've spoken with Father," Will said happily. "He's agreed."

"I haven't had time to speak with my mother yet," Merlin murmured. There was a future there, embedded in Will's hands and he could follow, find freedom, be happy. Be out of a house where he had nothing to say, no protests. They could have a life, freedom, the choices would be theirs. When looking into Will's earnest eyes, he was a fool to even hesitate.

"We should meet this Sunday," Will said, taking Merlin's hands and squeezing them. "Make plans. I want it beautiful and grand; we must invite everyone we know."

There was nothing more to say, but Merlin's heart felt like breaking, like he were a child and someone had pushed him out of his dreams and trampled on them. Despite the aching, the yearning in his chest, he leaned into the embrace in affirmation, letting Will kiss him.

"Happy birthday, by the way," Will murmured. He smuggled something into Merlin's hands.

It wasn't until when he was standing by the gate to the house and looked up, as he saw a shadow between the curtains in one of the windows, staring right back down at him: Merlin's heart leapt in startled fear. _(...Arthur - why are you looking at me like at a ghost?)_

()()()

A small package rested on the bedding as he later that night crept upstairs to sleep. It looked insignificant, wrapped in brown old cloth, but there was a piece of parchment atop of it with messy scrawling which caught his attention as he lit a candle by the bedside.

Merlin had never been educated as such, but his mother had learnt him a bit how to read – mainly in the tongue of the Old Religion so that he could read the old texts. It took awhile to decipher the text, both the handwriting and written language so unfamiliar.

'Happy birthday Merlin - Morgana' it read. He was surprised at the sweet gesture of the girl which he barely knew. Gingerly he opened the pack. A pair of gloves lay inside. They were knitted and had a few flaws, obviously done by a person learning the skill and not a proper craftsman. He wondered, as he put them on (they were a bit too large), if Lady Ygraine was aware of Morgana's gift. Lord Uther probably wasn't. He was not the kind of man to let his children bestow gifts upon mere servants. It'd be best never letting him know.

He began wearing the gloves everyday he could. It was wonderful not having to have freezing hands anymore. He even managed to say thank you to the girl when lord Uther wasn't looking.

()()()

Will had given him a cap for warmth, for which Merlin was very thankful – though snow was rare, winters in Camelot tended to be harshly cold - and a blue neckerchief. The butcher's son obviously couldn't afford anything _too_ expensive, but the man was full of whispered promises of better and more and future, and Merlin trusted him. They might never become rich like nobles, but would one day be better off than Hunith had ever been; Will kept promising like dreaming and Merlin hadn't the heart to object or disbelieve.

They met that Sunday, his mother, Will and Will's father. Freya played shyly in the background with some wooden toys (still unsure about the men - she was young, but had enough insight to understand that their presence meant something important_, _significant to her brother and possibly herself). Instead of parting ways after dinner, they lingered to talk. Will had grabbed Merlin's hand, holding it firmly atop of the table. A sign which no one could ignore.

Thomas insisted they would have a proper marriage, held at a beautiful place just outside the city with plenty of people invited. He liked grand and the best of things; rich food, fine new clothing, everything prepared in time and done by the best.

Merlin could have done with just Will's father, his mother and a priest to bless them, because it hurt slightly and felt so strange to think that soon Will would be his husband and he might not work in the Pendragon's household anymore and everything he'd gotten to know the past year would fall away, into the past, a memory, and nothing would be the same. Nothing would ever be the same.

He didn't have much dowry. What was there to inherit? They owned no land, no cattle, just a tiny bit of silver and linen. He'd already talked to his mother about giving much of it to Freya anyway. He had long ago promised himself to allow Freya live a much more carefree and safe life than he ever had, without having to work day in and day out in another's house or marrying out of desperation. He'd make her happy, no matter the cost.

When the butcher and his son had left, Hunith took Merlin's hands. "I'm very proud of you," she said. "He is a good man."

"Yes," Merlin said, not having any more words.

Arthur, he thought, a silent plead: Once I marry I will never see you again… Merlin didn't know how to cope with that, he liked having the man near, his presence in the house and his husky voice down the corridor; it was a constant, a security. The man with his quiet knowledge of the servant's magic but no fear: the man never regarded him with fear. No one ever had – not even his mother. (There were these moments when she'd glance at him with wide uncertain eyes and he could see fear in them, of his powers, the magnitude of them he himself didn't know: she trusted him but not his magic).

He was so used to it now, too used to simply let go.

"I'm happy for you," Hunith kissed his cheek. "Now, off you go. Isn't there a feast tomorrow at the Pendragon house?"

"Yes, there is," he said. He'd almost had to plead to the Lady to visit his mother today; things were so busy, and though she definitely didn't like it, the kindness in her eyes gave her away as she let him go. "Arthur is turning twenty…" His voice trailed off, his slip making Hunith frown; his voice had ended in a sigh, a longing for something … else, more, different _... something_. He shouldn't have said Arthur's name: it betrayed too much.

"Yes, I should go. I'll see you soon, mother."

()()()

Clinkering glasses, fine silvery, rich food and gaud beautiful dresses mixed with the voices in the grand salon; so many faces Merlin had never seen before. A few he remembered from Mordred or the girls' feasts but none had been like this; all the colours and lights carried through the evening and the night. There was no moment to breathe because he constantly had plates or carafes being pushed into his hands with the order to look proper and serve the people; Gwen was a flurry somewhere in the kitchen and his mouth watered at the smell of all the food. He wondered what it all tasted like.

Arthur had the seat of honour by the right short end of the large table, and they were cheering for him and presenting various gifts: silken fabrics, foreign decorated china, pieces of beautiful and often exotic art, weaponry gleaming in the candlelight. One of the visitors had given him a steed with thick black coat. Merlin knew because he had, through the window, seen them go outside; it was a beautiful animal and Arthur's eyes shone as he spoke his thanks. He smiled one of those rare real smiles, which warmed the servant's heart to witness even out of the corner of his eye.

The feeling didn't last long - as Uther began to speak, Arthur's face turned into that mask again which was difficult to read, briefly glancing toward the servant and Merlin looked away, gripping the handle of the jar of wine he was holding harder, wincing under the strength of those blue eyes.

"...Congratulations, congratulations," the tall dark-haired man by the left side of the table said, his voice strong and thick. He looked to be about Arthur's age, but his face was bearded and eyes twinkling merrily and he never ceased to make pleasant jokes; he made everyone at the table enjoy themselves. The man had winked flirtatiously at Gwen, but it hadn't been a dangerous look, nothing forced at her and the man had fallen back into conversation with another guest: Merlin sensed he didn't have to fear this man like he did sir Cenred.

The man had kept sending him lecherous looks all night.

"Yes, a toast is in order! A toast to Arthur Pendragon, the magnificent."

"Magnificent, Gwaine? I thought _you_ were the only man worthy such a title, according to yourself?"

"Oh, but I'm an enigma."

"That I shall never question."

The wine flowed like water. Merlin had once again to go back to the kitchen and fetch more when sir Cenred began to speak.

"I've heard you finished another painting. For von Bayard, wasn't it? Good man." Everyone at the table murmured and nodded in agreement. "I expect it to have been eye-catching. Have you begun making a new portrait?"

"Not yet," Arthur answered shortly.

"You should make me another painting, Arthur, after all you're an excellent artist, and I'd very much appreciate one," sir Cenred suggested with a smirk, and Merlin was so shocked when the man suddenly grabbed him, pressing his side close to the man's body, that he dropped the tray he was holding. It clattered to the floor along with any other conversation or sound on the table, falling into silence and Merlin's face burned as everyone's gaze turned towards them. The man held him firmly in place, his smell sharp of smoke and alcohol and those _hands_ were cradling places of his body he wanted no one to touch; he felt ill and wanted to run, heart beating furiously.

"Me and a merry company – this pretty servant maybe. How it would gladden me to be able to look at such a sweet face every day."

It sounded so mocking and people at the table looked away in an awkward way but underneath it, there was a demand. The man was rich and powerful, more so than the Pendragons, and though they didn't speak loudly of it they were having more and more trouble making the economy go on together. A single painting of Arthur's sold to this man could keep them well fed for another year or more. It was too good an opportunity to pass away, and if they refused, who knew what trouble the man could cause the family?

Uther sent his son a sharp look.

"Perhaps," was all Arthur said after a pause and not until then did Cenred let the servant go. Like a frightened hare, Merlin scrambled back, picked up the tray and hurried back to the kitchen. His hands wouldn't stop trembling.

()()()

"There are rumours running all across town," the butcher's son said quietly, pulling him closer and looking at him carefully, the day afterward when Merlin was running errands at the market; "about sir Cenred, you and a painting."

"And you believe them?" Merlin asked, heart pounding faster; how many knew and what were they saying and would they forget soon? Having people giving him double glances and headshakes made him uneasy and a bit frightened, and knowing why they were doing it made it all worse.

Will shook his head candidly. "Not if you say that it isn't true."

"It's not true," Merlin murmured, wishing he could believe it himself, the man had practically demanded it and Arthur was the artist, not him; he was the one to decide in the end, and Merlin feared what would happen. "It's not true," he repeated, and Will believed him. If only he could scream across town that it wasn't true and that they all were _wrong._

()()()

It was the last evening before the New Year, the sky clear, dark and star-filled. The wet-nurse had finally left the house and Gwen had finally stopped complaining: the servants were quiet and tired, but the family was gathered around the fireplace sharing stories and laughter, and Merlin longed to go home and share a joke with Freya.

Was it even his home anymore? He'd started to...forget. The feeling of coming to the house to the smell of his mother's cooking; how it was to play at the street and be happy and carefree as Freya asked him to spin her around again holding her hands; how the food had tasted and the street looked like, the chattering neighbours and dogs barking in the distance. It was all blurring away. He knew this house better than he'd ever known his own. Was this home now? A pack and a thin mattress at the attic? The studio which he so carefully dusted and cleaned, the only place where he could admire from afar and be unwatched, undisturbed, alone?

When the oldest son stopped him in the corridor, he was surprised and a sense of dread began to form at the bottom of his stomach. "Put those away," the man said, gesturing at the linen and Merlin put them in the cupboard in the hall obediently. When the man began to walk up the stairs, the servant followed, the third step creaking loudly and from outside he heard the echoes of the children playing, the sound faint like a memory; the rest of the house was covered in a strange kind of stillness, sounds and action muffled. His mind was figuring out what was happening, but his heart didn't want to believe it.

The studio looked differently. The corner wasn't empty anymore. There was a finely carved chair; the table had a parchment and quill on it; the map was up on the wall. But there were no carpets or curtains and the scene looked incredibly empty and emotionless.

"Sit down."

He did. The chair was comfortable and covered partly with a very soft-looking white fur, but with Arthur studying him so closely he resisted the urge to touch it.

"Take up the quill, rest your left hand against the table, like you're writing a letter."

Merlin was glad he'd been taught how to hold the quill properly. Desperate to focus at anything else but the man's gaze, he lowered his eyes. A few meaningless lines were written on the parchment. The handwriting was neat and delicate, the opposite of his own uncertain one; each letter was a piece of art, its own little world, and he wondered if it was Arthur who had written it.

"Shouldn't I be scrubbing the floors, polish the windows or mending clothing?" he asked.

Arthur's face was serious, but he sounded slightly amused. "You want to be portrayed with a cloth and bucket in your hands, like a servant?"

"It's what I am."

The artist simply shook his head, and the conversation seemed to mean nothing, falling away.

"Lift your head. No, a little more. Look at me, like you're thinking of the person you're writing the letter to." (To who? he wanted to ask. A friend, a family member, a lover?)

He didn't want to, god, _he didn't want to,_ and tried to suppress a shudder at the thought of just what was happening, he didn't want to think of it. He managed to raise his gaze enough to look at Arthur. The man stared right back with those blue, studious eyes. It would be easier to think that he was an object of fascination and Arthur was merely judging how to get best angle for the light to fall onto his face but Arthur wasn't looking at him like that. The man was looking at him like he was a person and would with his coloured brush attempt convey whatever he saw, with true emotion, and Merlin found it difficult to breathe.

"No. Put down the quill. Let your arms fall down your sides. Turn your head…a little more to the left."

Merlin did. His yet unwashed, rough hands felt so heavy and he wanted to rest them a bit in his lap. His shoulders ached.

Arthur continued to stare at him, gaze getting unfocused; maybe he was looking at him with such clearance nobody ever had, or was dreaming away and seeing something entirely different. Then, the man broke the stare, turned to the empty canvas and Merlin swallowed hard, briefly closing his eyes. This was it and he couldn't run away, couldn't escape.

"Merlin, look at me," Arthur said, in that quiet almost dangerous way and he opened his eyes again to look at the artist. The room was incredibly silent. Could the man hear how hard his heart was beating?

"You know what I'm doing to do."

"I'll be still," Merlin whispered.


	5. January, 1624

_Author's note: I just wanted to say another thank you to everyone who's reading, and add that listening to Yann Tiersen (especially the track 'La Valse d'Amelie' for orchestra, 'Déjà loin' and 'La Plage') was a _huge_ inspiration on my part and helped me write. Just thought it'd be fitting to listen to at the same time as reading._

_While I'm at it I'll add a second note. After the third chapter I was asked a few quite important questions: Why does Sophia act like she does (or really, why is she so mean?), why is the Will/Merlin relationship working as it does?_

_On Sophia: she acts kind of like a brat and dislikes servants in general, because of her upbringing and her personality, she's "learned" that 'lower people' aren't as worthy, and she's kind of lonely, craving attention (I think I mention part of this somewhere as Merlin's reflections on her character) she never really gets and then she resorts to pranking/hurting people as it is a chance at least to gain a reaction..  
><em>_On Merlin/Will: To begin with I've made Merlin 'quieter' than in the show, more shy and obedient... He's more careful but also in a more vulnerable position. Though Hunith's always trying to be strong Merlin is the only stable source of income they got and a servant's pay isn't much. It's a class society so he can't exactly become what he wants and earn a lot. Will clearly wants him and if Merlin accepts that, his family will in the long run fare a bit better, they wouldn't have to live by a servant's pay alone. Besides, Merlin has feelings for Will which is a big factor in how he acts (regarding Will as well as Arthur)._

_It's all really more complicated than that, but this was the simplest, shortest explanation I'd come up with right now._

_Now back to the story!_

()()()

**V.**

**1624****  
>JANUARY<strong>

There was so much work and he couldn't be excused from any chore. It was difficult - his mistress expected him to do it all without complaint, without flaw; Gwen would shout for him to see to the children or go to the market or run to the apothecary for more thyme; Will wished for him to visit his home ("_Our_ home_"_, the man had said, "our future") sometime - and still Arthur wanted him in the studio ready to sit model for hours. Nobody in the house could get to know about the painting. It would be made in secret and sold to sir Cenred without anybody but Arthur seeing it. The thought was both incredibly relieving and saddening at the same time. Maybe one day, Merlin would've liked to look at the finished painting, at his own face, just to see how Arthur had reflected him through the brush, but he was also incredibly fearful of such a prospect and knew that he'd probably never see it. It was better that way.

He slept as little as physically possible.

It was good he rested on the top floor. Once figuring out which steps in the stairs that creaked so he could avoid them, he could sneak down at early morning and find Arthur waiting for him in the studio, and at night, after finishing the other chores, he would linger for hours frozen on the chair, back and hands aching and eyes watering at having to have them focused and open for so long, no one in the house noticing.

His mother began to wonder why his visits to her were so brief. He'd looked away when she asked, murmured something about much more work and much to do and that he was given little time for anything else, and silently wished he'd be able to look her in the eye and tell her the truth.

(Would he ever be able to, or forever have to tell lies?)

()()()

It was raining heavily for the second day in a row and once again Merlin had to hang the linen in front of the fireplace to dry. The whole family was gathered in the living room; the elders sipping at hot tea and fine red wine and quietly making conversation, the young ones playing with a set of fine wooden toys. Mordred sat with the former, casting occasional glances at the laughing youngest girls' faces and the toys in their hands, but didn't move. He was too old for that now but at heart, he still probably wanted to be childish and carefree. Morgana sat beside him, face scrunched up in concentration as she stared intensely on the knitting she was making.

Merlin tried not to listen, feeling like it was intrusive to do so, like listening by doors and spreading his master's words where they shouldn't be, but it was hard not to when Gwen wasn't present; she was back in the kitchen preparing dinner, he heard the clanging of pots and pans and the chopping sound of a knife. Without her brisk orders or kind talk in his ear, he couldn't help but lean in and focus on Arthur's musky voice almost like it was a lullaby. Lord Uther's voice was harsh and cold, the lady's soft and smooth, and they sounded like in control but Arthur's was pleasant and Merlin just couldn't help himself.

"Have you heard?" they were saying and Merlin shivered as he realized what they were talking about. He'd heard the whisperings at the market the day before and not wanted to believe them.

"Yes, I could hardly believe it, he was such a respectable man," the lady said and her husband took a deep sip of his goblet of wine, grimacing as he said, "Those magic scum mustn't be tolerated. Pay heed, sons, if you ever meet a sorcerer it is best to run them through before they have any chance to speak, they would only use their foul ability and enchant you. They're all decievers."

"I'll remember that, father," said Mordred though he sounded rather small and maybe a bit afraid of the prospect of killing people, because he wasn't yet fifteen years old and had never seen a man die, had never wanted to and never would.

Merlin risked a glance in Arthur's direction, and it was hard to judge his reaction of the older man's words. The jaw was set strong, shoulders tense, but he sounded calm and controlled and not shaken. "Have they proved him guilty?"

"Of course," Uther barked and took another thick sip of red wine.

Merlin wondered if Arthur ever had seen a man die, if he'd fought and killed and seen death, if he'd been sent to battles sometime and managed to escape unscathed, if he'd witnessed the execution of sorcerers in the past, or if he'd always lived in the safety of this house.

()()()

The day after when he went to the market, the air was filled with the stench of burned flesh and the echoes of screams of pain.

()()()

The first two days Arthur never painted anything. Never lifted the piece of charcoal to draw the first aiding lines, just stood there before there easel and looked at him. Mostly he was silent; sometimes making adjustments to Merlin's pose, how he held his jaw or at what angle he should bend his neck, if at all, how to settle the folds in the red neckerchief with a tear in its end.

The third day, Merlin came down an early morning to find the studio unlocked but empty. The corner was dramatically changed: gone were the table and the map. The chair stood lonely and without the fur on it, and a heavy dark tapestry hung on the wall. For the first time, the canvas on the easel wasn't covered. It looked so white and plain, it was so strange that on that white linen a picture of living colour could be brought to life, held fast and admired. Hesitantly, not able to help himself, he reached out a hand to touch it. The texture was strange, unfamiliar to his fingertips.

"It's difficult, you know, drawing the first few lines."

At hearing the voice, Merlin drew back sharply. Arthur didn't scold him, just walked up to stand by his side. "They never seem to do what I want them to," the artist continued. "But I think today is a good time."

And when Merlin took seat, Arthur lifted the piece of charcoal, staining his hands with the dark material. The sun through the windows was bright and Merlin fought to keep his eyes open and unblinking for as long as possible; he was painfully aware of how long time he saw there and that he needed to go down to the kitchen and help prepare breakfast soon, else Gwen be cross with him.

"No, don't lose your focus. You need to keep looking at me."

His back tensed as he did as he was told. It was slightly easier to keep his gaze steady when Arthur's face was partly hidden by the canvas, but wavered every time the man looked up. After an hour of silence, the artist paused, and then drew back his hand. "There's something…" he murmured to himself, eyes flickering between the canvas and Merlin.

"Part your lips. Just a little."

Swallowing, Merlin parted them. They suddenly felt dry and quivered slightly and he felt so vulnerable sitting there, quiet and wide-eyed before the man. Parting his lips like that wasn't…it wasn't _right_. It wasn't appropriate. It was wrong to sit there with parted trembling lips with a man looking at him so piercingly. It was so wrong and the thought of Will flashed in his mind, making him want to sob. It was so wrong and he _wanted_ it - to be looked at like that was both frightening and exciting, and never wanted Arthur to look away, yet, he wanted to run. (Was this unfaithfulness? If he found out, would Will be disgusted and throw him away, never want to see him again…?)

"Moisture them."

Nervously, he darted out his tongue. It was difficult to breathe and his hear beat so fast. If this was how Arthur would paint him, exposed and lonely, he wanted to flee forever. The blue eyes held him capture. They were staring transfixed at his face. He wished he had the power to leave.

"Again."

Blinking in attempt to get rid of the tears beginning to build up in his eyes, Merlin slid his tongue across his lips a second time.

"Pull down your tunic and jacket by the shoulder."

'No,' he wanted to cry, 'I can't … _please_.' His hand hesitated and stilled. He couldn't…He couldn't. Arthur saw his fear and put down the tools in his hands, walked over calmly and when the man's hand ghosted near his skin as it was revealed, Arthur pulling at his tunic, Merlin shuddered and shut his eyes. Why did it have to be like this? Why couldn't he paint him like a servant, with a piece of cloth and a bucket in his rough hands, facing away, _anything but this_?

"Wet your lips again and look at me like you did before."

_Wantonly_, a dark little voice whispered in his mind and he shivered. How many hours, weeks, months would he have to endure before it was over?

()()()

"He's barricading himself in the studio again," Merlin heard the lady a few days later, in the hall speaking with her husband. The lord made a pleased noise at the words. They were discreet about it, but they were running out of money: the newest addition to the house craved more and their resources to feed all hungry mouths were beginning to wear thin. "I hope he's working on a new painting."

Merlin hoped she would never find out that her wish was coming true.

()()()

**FEBRUARY**

"You're so distracted. Is something wrong?" Will asked, filling the pail and handing it over, and Merlin shrugged. Warm sunlight beat into his back and thought the air was chilly, seeping through his cap, his cheeks were flushed.

"No...everything's fine," he said, wanting to explain but unsure how, that everything was wrong; that he both hated and loved sitting on a lone chair caught by Arthur's wonderful gaze and hear the faint sound of a brush against canvas, enveloped in the smell of colours, that he loved Arthur so badly though the man was still a _stranger_ and causing him so much pain. He shivered though having a coat heavily draped on his shoulders. It had stopped snowing yesterday.

Will leaned close over the counter and kissed his sharp cheekbone, the man's stubble coarse against his skin; it felt nice and homely and made him smile. Briefly the man paused, scrunching up his nose. "You smell of linseed oil," he muttered, astounded.

Merlin avoided his eyes. "I'm cleaning my master's studio; the smell must've stuck in my clothing."

Will looked at him critically, frowning slightly, but nodded. Maybe he was still thinking about those rumours. Maybe he was wondering and one day would ask.

(He made sure to wash his tunic and jacket carefully that evening, scrubbing the fabric thoroughly and drowning it in soapy, sandy water, to get rid of the smell. How long would he be able to hide what was going on behind the closed doors? How long would it be before Will or his mother realized? How long before Uther or Ygraine Pendragon knew and word was spread like wildfire, again, through the city?)

"_It's not true,"_ he had said on this very spot, lying into the face of a man he one day hoped to be trust himself with fully. How could he ever do such a thing? It hurt so much to be a liar; he didn't want to build his life out of it, but without keeping things secret and hiding and looking away, he couldn't survive. It hurt to think of it, but truth was he had been taught to lie as soon as he began to speak_. (Keep the gift a secret no matter what. Sharing such things is dangerous.)_

"I don't like it," Will muttered. "I don't like you having to work for the Pendragons. They're a nasty bunch. The rumours still haven't died."

"It takes a long while until they do," the servant said trying to ignore the sting of the words. "It always does."

"I want our marriage to take place as soon as spring returns. I've heard people at the market say things about us; about _you_...I wish you'll never have to hear it. The marriage would quiet them down."

Of course they were talking. He was a lowly servant in a rich household, and gossip loves all folk involved with rich people. And he'd stepped into their lives young and innocent and got caught in their web within weeks and now sir Cenred wanted his portrait. Everyone knew what happened the last time Cenred was painted with a servant. (No one had seen her for years: her fiancé had refused to marry her, and her illegitimate child was unnamed and forgotten.) Gwen had talked of the girl after Arthur's birthday feast, knowing that once sir Cenred had asked such a thing, directly or not, it was an order and Arthur would be a fool trying to refuse. Gwen had looked at him almost pitifully and patted his arm in attempt to console him but Merlin had been confused and humiliated. Back then, he hadn't known that it would come to this. Back then, he'd thought there was some other way.

He didn't need to hear to know what they were saying.

"Just be careful, all right?" Will said.

"Of course," Merlin answered. "Don't worry."

The man embraced him. "Good. I trust you."

()()()

Sometime in mid-month be found himself counting the days. He knew that the last painting had taken nearly a year to finish. One thing he knew, he couldn't bear it for a year. However, he wasn't sure how to ask – or even what to ask. (How long will it take before you let me go? Will you complete this painting and then forget me?) If he should. A proper servant wouldn't, but then again he had never been a very good servant, never wanted to be one at all.

It was difficult to find the opportunity. When in the studio, Arthur required silence and if he were to speak, Merlin would lose his pose. The first few times he tried, the man just made a shushing motion with his hand and shook his head. Eventually, the servant forced his legs to move and approached him before the man left the room to retire one late night, the sun half set behind Camelot's rooftops. He should be downstairs scrubbing the floors.

"How long will it take?"

A beat passed before he recieved a response.

"The painting? I can't answer. Rome wasn't built in one day," Arthur said slightly amused and Merlin blinked, not understanding the meaning of those words fully, but understanding enough.

"I…I need more time for my other duties," he tried feebly, though it wasn't what he had meant to say, wanted to say.

The man's words seemed so plain and simple and in his word, they were, but he wasn't a servant and could never understand Merlin's worry and fears. Had the man even ever felt fear? "It takes the time it takes. I cannot force a painting onto the canvas, just like a farmer can't force the crops to grow; it takes time to be ready for harvest."

Merlin decided to be honest. "I don't know for how long I can do this."

"Your marriage."

He lifted a startled gaze at the man, wondering how he had found out: Merlin certainly hadn't told him. The man's face was a calm façade, but his eyes swirled with emotion and it was clear now, he didn't like the thought of Merlin taking another man's hand. He looked away. Why was this so difficult? Why did everything have to be so hard?

"…Yes," he said quietly. "My marriage." Both understand the meaning: if word spread of the painting and caused a scandal, Merlin would be the first to pay for it.

"The painting must be finished no matter what," Arthur said and it was the end of discussion, he couldn't protest and even if he tried to run away, Arthur would probably send city guards after him and have him sit there, all for the sake of an artist's brush and a single man's desire.

()()()

"Take some of that tea to the lady," Gwen said when stirring the stew. Lady Ygraine had gone to bed early three days in a row and no remedies seemed to help. She complained about sudden hunger and fatigue, but all adults in the house could tell what the signs meant. "She'll appreciate it. But lord, another one…We have enough mouths to feed as it is."

"So she's really…? Already?"

"Yes, already," the woman said and sighed, wiping her brow with a tired hand. "Now go give the tea to her before it grows cold."

Merlin felt a pang of sharp sympathy for them both, the exhausted servant girl and her weary mistress, for neither of their lives was easy, and no stories of how easily the luxury of every lord and lady's home flowed fit with reality. People from the outside could look in through the windows and dream, but no place made a true heaven. There were the hardships and the half-truths and things no one could get away from. All dreams have a price and sweet whispers full of promise would cost them something, some things they mightn't want to pay. William wouldn't want to see that, not yet: he was too confident and hopeful and Merlin knew few people who has such beautiful bright hearts. Will deserved a chance for happiness, even if it was meager.

"I'll set the table and fetch the girls and Mordred for dinner," he said before leaving the kitchen. Gwen was worthy some proper rest whenever she could get it. She just nodded in reply.

()()()

**MARCH**

"Show me your magic."

The servant flinched at the sudden request. The room had been silent for hours, and the sun was beginning to set, the sky glowing yellow and red through the windows. He was so tired, hands and shoulders exhausted, and his back felt strained for having to sit frozen in the same position for so long.

"I shouldn't," Merlin said quietly. There were no guards hanging by the door waiting to arrest him, but sorcery was still forbidden and the man himself had warned him strongy against using it. The demand both made him apprehensive: because he wanted, deep inside, to heed it.

"I wish to see it."

"Why?"

Arthur looked strangely ashamed but didn't answer. Merlin knew he shouldn't, that it wasn't a reasonable command, magic was outlawed and he should never have let Arthur find out about his gift in the first place, but Arthur was asking like he wanted to witness something beautiful and extraordinary and Merlin could clearly remember the awe shining in his eyes the first time Arthur saw him use it. He'd not looked down at him or through him, but _at_ him, and though he'd been terrified it had also felt slightly wonderful. And now he could actually use his powers in front of someone and not be afraid, he could be appreciated for who he was. Arthur didn't seem to care he was a servant, a nobody. Maybe it was because he was an artist and looked at the world's shapes and colours, not its order.

(Could he one day show Will his magic like this, or would he have to live with him in half-lies and pretence? If he showed William his magic, would the man turn him away or let him stay?)

He reached out with his magic and it flowed around through his veins, a lively warm feeling a bit like fire in his blood and the candles flared to life and his hands glowed with power. It was a simple trick, he didn't dare do anything else; the windows weren't covered and they were in a house where anything could be heard, the walls thin.

The blonde man was all focused upon him, an unreadable expression in his eyes. Merlin shivered, but not from cold or fear.

"Your eyes," Arthur said, finally, the words like a blanket, hushed, crisp at the edges. He stepped closer: there was nothing hindering him. "Your eyes...they're beautiful." He put down the brush.

Merlin shuddered when the blonde man's fingers came into contact with his skin. It was nothing like the butcher's son touch; softer, like a ghost's; it could have been a memory.

The kiss was shockingly real.

"…Why…?" Merlin whispered, as their lips parted, the man's taste lingering in his mouth, it was sweet and gentle and something else than William's demands. It was a question, a hesitation, and that was what frightened him. "Why?"

"I don't know." The voice was hoarse and very near, near. "I...Merlin..."

_Please, don't do this to me._

Arthur must have heard his silent thought, pleading; for when Merlin opened his eyes, the man was gone whether had he interpreted the servants pleading questioning eyes as rejection or fear. The easel stood exposed in the centre of the room, but when Merlin finally managed to move off the chair and over the threshold, he didn't look over his shoulder at the colour-covered canvas.

What should I do? Merlin thought in despair. Why can this feeling not let me go? Why did he have to ... I have to ... why...?

()()()

Later that night the artist lifted the brush and added a faint golden gleam to the boy's irises.

()()()

The image was burning in his temple, his breath, his every thought: Arthur's blue gaze fixed on him, his magic glowing; Arthur, moving in, closer, fingers slowly gently touching his cheek, trailing his cheekbones and lips, heartbeat irregular; Arthur touching him, the memory of a caress, so swiftly gone. Arthur, kissing him, a shock against his lips. Arthur, seeing his magic, golden eyes, wonder – _Why are you doing this? – I do not know. I do not know._

Arthur's gaze had been so very intense. It was almost as if he knew what the servant felt and thought – for him, for him only. His voice, that husky alluring voice, strangled, "Merlin..." falling into nothingness until he heard nothing but the pressing silence – he'd never felt so alone.

He thought of Will and his kindness and the words people were throwing around and the uselessness of it all – Merlin's frame shook with tears. He didn't know what to do. What was right to do? Did it even matter? Suddenly his world was freer, but all his dreams were out of reach – the truth made him feel sick in the heart. Suddenly he had nothing to hide, he was laid exposed and it wouldn't matter what he did or didn't do anymore. He realized it now, with his magic and the painting and the upcoming marriage, it wouldn't matter, soon he'd be out of this house anyway and _it wouldn't matter anymore_.

Quietly, as faint ringing bells announced Midnight, Merlin sneaked out of the house and walked quickly to the tavern area. He found the butcher's son drinking and celebrating with some local merchants, singing in merry and gulping down cheap ale. Meeting Will's eyes and taking his wrist, Merlin led him outside, ignoring the whistles and drunken cries in their wake.

He took him to a deserted cold alley where they would be alone, and guided the man's hands to his hips, finally giving him what he so desired. Will's eyes were wide and dark, and when he realized what Merlin was doing, he leaned in to kiss him near the earlobe; face lowered near the servant's, his heavy breaths mingling with Merlin's quick, nervous ones.

Hands nimbly began undoing his clothing and he heard the clasp of a belt being unbuckled; Merlin tried to stop thinking. Will's hands eagerly explored, touched, fingers splayed on milky white thighs. There was alcohol on Will's breath, but it didn't matter, and he didn't speak. The man's moaning of satisfaction would never leave Merlin's ears, the sound low but unmistakable in the gloom. When he began thrusting hard and fast and fervently, it hurt – but Merlin fluttered his eyes closed and he thought of Arthur's fingers against his cheek, Arthur's tentative lips joining his own, Arthur's gaze _(I don't know (why I'm doing this) but cannot let it go),_ and the warmth spreading through his body could've been pleasure.

Afterwards, (knees trembling, lingering touches – Will had refused to let go for many minutes, murmuring soothingly, warmly, "I love you" too close to disregard), Merlin wandered aimlessly, alone, through the sleeping town, hours passing by – his magic kept him warm now, he did little to hide it, suddenly not caring if he was caught. There was no reason to go back to the house and sleep. There was no reason in going to his mother's home, for she would ask so much, questions he wasn't ready to answer.

()()()

Gwen gave him a disapproving glare as he crept in through the back door, stumbling a bit from tiredness. "Where have you been?" she asked worriedly, not loud enough to disturb the still sleeping inhabitants of the house but loud enough for him to wince: "You disappeared and didn't come back last night."

His thoughts flashed back to William's hands (firm, warm in the cold air, seeking places no one else ever had) and self-consciously pulled at his jacket, hoping it covered everything, his skin – afraid that Gwen would see through his thin façade and _realize_. His skin smelled of another man, of his sweat, of his desire. He wanted to bathe and forget it all.

"I'm sorry," Merlin murmured, lowering his eyes. He couldn't think of any excuse. What she thought was visible (his tousled hair, reddened face, feeble attempts at hiding his neck), and she gave him with one long thoughtful look. It was sharp but not unkind.

"I hope you have gotten some rest, for there's still work to do."

It was as if she knew, had watched the alleyway and seen his naked legs and the man with him (eager and hungry-eyed), and Merlin's face burned in shame. Without answering, he went about the laundry, closing the door to the workroom so that nobody would see his eyes watering and heart beating so ferociously against his ribcage.

()()()

The following week felt slow, so slow and so little was happening yet he constantly longed for it to be over. His nights were restless. Will treated him no different from before, his words were sweet and kind and his actions hadn't changed, perhaps his feelings had intensified tenfold. Merlin felt twitchy and nervous, flinching at every loud noise; at every glance sent his way, every time Gwen sharply called for him to help with supper and every time there was footsteps falling down the corridor as the children rushed out to play and every time Arthur summoned him to the studio.

The blonde man maybe sensed his unease, but didn't know what caused it, _couldn't_ know, and it was better that way. It was incredibly difficult to sit all those hours still and unmoving, forbidden to look away.


	6. April

**VI.**

**APRIL**

The painting was almost finished. Every moment in the studio became shorter and shorter and sometimes Arthur didn't even lift the brush. It had been four months. Much faster than any of the man's earlier paintings. Sometimes he lingered at them for years before letting them go and then wouldn't speak of them ever again – he was that kind of man; once he'd released his grip, he turned away completely. Maybe this particular one was just hurting and causing so much unease, he wanted it done as soon as possible.

Four months - but it felt like forever.

Will was going to marry him in four days. He yet had to face his mistress about it, about being let go. The family would be disappointed probably; he'd served them for a year now. Almost a permanent part of the household; they were used to having him work and have the chores being done like the flood of a river, life going on a little easier for them. Would they demand him to stay, would they not let him go?

Or maybe they would be relieved. He wasn't the perfect servant. There was the clumsiness and the unwanted attention from sir Cenred and the silence and stares from people whenever he was around. There were Sophia's scornful glares and silent pranks and the case with the stolen jewellery. There was the need to pay him for his work. There was the painting. When it was done and sold and hanging in one of sir Cenred's halls, would Arthur still look at him that piercing way or would he become a shadow?

"Cenred will come to fetch it in eight days," Arthur said and allowed Merlin to unfreeze from the pose for a final time. "My Father and Mother will not be in the house at the time. I shall order Guinevere to take my sisters and brother on a walk to the market or whatever they wish, and not be back until nightfall."

Merlin sealed his lips, pulled up his jacket and tigthened the loose neckerchief again, the material itching against his skin.

"And me?"

"You shouldn't be here. Go visit your mother, or follow Guinevere to the market."

At least he wouldn't have to face the man.

He cast a final look at the uncovered easel, from the angle unable to see the painting itself, before leaving the room.

()()()

It was a quiet afternoon and the lady was sitting in the parley drinking tea with her husband, their conversation about recent news from the North where another conflict had arisen. People were starting to murmur about battles and sons being sent to war and thus harvest and trade being heavily affected, and the talks had reached the household. They might be nobles, but if demanded, Arthur would be sent to fight. It was something the Pendragons highly wanted to avoid. He was one of their greatest sources of income and their security and their oldest son. If he died on the battlefield, the effect on the family would be enormous.

Their voices carried down the hall and Merlin was cautions when he approached, but he had to: he'd waited long enough.

"What is it, boy?" Uther asked impatiently, his gaze more focused on the letter on the table (it had a red insignia at the bottom, Merlin spotted, a significant dangerous colour, like a warning).

"Master, I need to ask for permission to be excused from work both on Saturday and Sunday."

The man looked up fully and the lady asked, "Why is that?

"My wedding ceremony is to take place."

They exchanged a look. "Ah," the lord said with a grunt. "Well then. It's understandable. But will you seek another occupation afterward or continue your services for our family?"

"I," Merlin hesitated, remembering Will's promises, "I'm not sure, mistress."

"You can continue to work for us," lady Ygraine said and turned to him with this soft look on her face, a feminine shadow of her son's familiar expression, her eyes warm. "Unless you are to leave Camelot?"

"No, I doubt we'll leave the city, mistress." Or would Will want to? Perhaps he would: the man felt constricted by the town where he had grown up, with all its ties and expectations, and he constantly longed for freedom. Maybe he wished to seek it in nearby villages and towns. It would demand money, but if they worked for it, it surely was possible. "At least not yet," Merlin added quietly.

She seemed to understand what he meant. "I offer my congratulations upon your upcoming marriage."

()()()

When he met his mother that day, earlier than usual, Hunith was skittish and in full haste with preparations; naturally, the neighbours knew all about the event and offered both best wishes and blessings and help, all accepted. Hunith insisted that he'd bathe, eat and rest and not lift a finger: this was his day, and just for today, he wouldn't be a servant. It felt incredibly strange to settle on his mother's blankets to the sound of his mother's voice and close his eyes: he couldn't recall falling asleep, but when he was shaken awake by Freya the candle had melted an inch. The girl was full of energy, bouncing on her heels, her hair put up and she was dressed in the finest dress she had. She could smell the celebration coming.

"Merlin! Merlin!" she cried. "Hurry, William's here and there are lots of guest with him too and he really wants to see you!"

He smiled broadly at her and patted her head, at which she made a displeased sound because now she was a big girl, not a child to constantly be coddled. He let her lead him outside after dressing in freshly cleaned clothes, the newest and best things he had, but he felt terribly underdressed when seeing Will's polished shoes and fine buttoned jacket. It wasn't quite like the gaud embroidered things he'd seen lords wear, but detailed and rich enough for him to wonder how many weeks of work had been necessary to pay for the garment.

The wedding was a beautiful affair. He knew he should be happy: and he was, though it felt almost wrong to allow himself to be glad. Half of the people invited where faces he hadn't seen before. Will's brother Thomas, sharing his father's name, had come to the city just the week before after a long trip to the North. He was older than Will by two years, but had chosen the military career rather than follow his father's footsteps. The outspoken friendly man was accompanied by his wife and daughter. There were several cousins and in-laws too, and it was strange to think of them as family now and address Thomas, the older, as 'father'. Merlin always stumbled over the word.

Rather than having it take place inside the city walls, they had gathered outside in a meadow near the river's crook. The gentle sound of water drowned in voices and laughter and clapping hands. So many songs were sung and dances danced that later, Merlin couldn't recall half of them.

Momentarily his mother pulled him aside and embraced him hard and it was the last firm embrace he'd share with her; and quietly he whispered, "I'm going to tell him about my gift."

Hunith grew pale at the words. "Merlin, you shouldn't." What if he turns you in? were the underlying heavy words. What if he lets have you burned?

Merlin's eyes glowed in earnest as he said: "I don't want to lie to the man I love."

The man I love. He'd never openly said such words before, but it was time now. Because though his heart beat so hard and warm in Arthur's presence, he loved Will dearly as well, and though he had those childish naïve dreams he still felt pleasure at Will's touch and wouldn't not have him as his husband.

His mother laid hands on either sides of his face and looked at him solemnly. "It is your choice, but I want you to be careful."

"I will be. Mother, please, don't worry about me anymore."

Freya was there of course, dressed in blue and white, and she sobbed a little when he hugged her. She had finally understood that he wouldn't leave the Pendragons and come home with her and live happily forever with their mother. "Please don't leave me," she said, looking up at him with worried eyes. "Can't mother and I live with you and Will?"

And he smiled and said, "I'm sorry Freya, but I don't know."

The girl's lower lip trembled. "Oh. But…you'll visit us right? You won't just leave me forever right?"

"Of course. I won't turn my back on you."

The vows were exchanged and a red band tied around his and Will's wrists, hands joined and people cheered and bestowed them with blessings and gifts; Will was glowing with happiness and pride and Merlin looked at him sharing a warm smile. He wouldn't take this moment away from him. This would have to be an untainted joyful memory, blissfully free from any secrets.

(He still hadn't told Will about his magic. How could he speak of it? He didn't know if he dared, even though he wanted to.)

The feast continued all through the evening, the sky growing a darker shade of orange and the shadows longer, the wind gradually became colder. Will draped his coat over Merlin's shoulders and kissed him for the hundredth time that day.

Night came and the festivity was carried through the city gates which were being closed at this hour. The guards by the wall smiled and congratulated at seeing the procession. When reaching the butcher's home, the newlyweds were left alone, and though they had eloped in that alley three months earlier, Merlin still was incredibly nervous and a bit afraid.

It felt sinfully wonderful despite the initial pain and Will whispered sweet words as they touched; skin pressing against skin and hitching warm breath against his cheek, moans of satisfaction and hot hardened flesh; a hand entwining with his own. He let himself sink into the bare feeling and enjoy Will's dedicated attention, closing his eyes with the man's name on his lips. The candles on the nightstand flickered and their bodies covered in a thin sheen of sweat as they moved together as one, forgetting all else but each other.

It took a long time for morning to come.

()()()

He awoke wrapped in Will's arms and enveloped in a sense of safety he hadn't had since...forever.

()()()

"Will… There is something I must talk with you about."

The man looked up from the food. The whole little house smelled of the remnants of the feast: the table was littered with wooden bowls of fruit and vegetables and thick stew and bread and meat. It was just the two of them now, Thomas the butcher having left for work (or so he claimed: in reality, the man probably just wanted to give them some privacy).

"What is it, my love?"

To be called such words would take awhile to get used to.

"I…" he tried to form some kind of coherent, straight-forward phrase. He had no idea how to say it, but he needed to, he couldn't keep lying. "Will, I…"

Will put an arm around his waist and pulled him down to sit next to him, hastily kissing his cheek. "Is something wrong?"

"No…No, I. There's…It's difficult to explain," Merlin babbled, voice dropping and in his mind he was silently praying for Will's understanding and kindness. And he realized that if he told him now, either he'd be free or Will would hate him, would accuse him of bewitching him and he'd be thrown into the city dungeons and spat upon, and he was so_ scared_ and unconsciously clung harder onto Will's jacket like trying to find some comfort, a lifeline. No one could understand his gift. No one. Not his mother, even his sister or Arthur Pendragon even if they all kept his secret - they never understood and would never do so. They never had the power which was flowing in his blood, they'd never tasted it and never felt its glow burn and _never understood_ _why._

"Merlin?" the man asked, confused, a rough but gentle hand stroking his cheek. "Merlin?"

"…I…I'm sorry," he whispered, averting his eyes. "I can't explain. I can't … I'm sorry."

Will stroke his arm and murmured something near to "You can trust me, Merlin," but he continued to choke on the words and they couldn't make it past his throat. Instead, he settled for saying; "It was nothing, just a silly thought."

()()()

It all went downhill from there.

But Merlin didn't know until it was too late.

He came back to the Pendragon household on early Monday morning, quietly entering the kitchen through the back door and beginning to prepare breakfast, still glowing with remembrance of the feast and joyous voices and Will's husky scent. Gwen's face broke in a smile at seeing him, and though she tried to lower her voice so not to wake the occupants of the house, she was talking very fast and enthusiastically.

"Merlin! Congratulations! I heard it was quite a feast. You know how well-spoken of Thomas' son is; have you visited the market yet and heard the talks?"

He shook his head but smiled. "Thanks, Gwen. And no, I haven't heard - nothing bad, I hope?"

"Nothing of the sort, I can assure you, but you know what juicy details the women share when buying turnips." The woman looked just a little bit embarrassed, cheeks reddening. "I can't believe you didn't tell me beforehand."

"I'm sorry, Gwen."

"Oh, but it's all right, of course," she quickly said and placed a pot on the stove, filling it with some fresh fuel wood and lighting it. "I imagine there must've been so many preparations going on, you must have been distracted. Besides, I must say the butcher's son is quite handsome. I know _I'd_ be distracted by knowing I'd have such a husband."

Merlin almost asked why _she_ had never married, but stopped himself. It was a stupid, rude and naïve question.

"But I thought it'd mean you'll leave the house?" Gwen asked.

"I don't know…not yet," he said sounding as tentative as he felt. "Will's wants to open his own business rather than work for his father, so maybe later."

"Ah. Well, then he's going to need a pair of extra hands. It'll be a pity to see you leave, you've been more of a help than any previous servants here. Have I told you about Cedric?"

She had, she liked to talk about gossip and such stories: he had been a conceited young man, but seemed like the perfect obedient servant. Then one day he was gone along with several of the lady's precious pearls. The guards were sent to search for him, but he was never found: he had probably bought himself a new, better life someplace far away. He was one of the reasons lord Uther had waited so long before hiring a new servant to aid Gwen with her many duties.

"I'm glad you're not like him," Gwen said and smiled again before turning to work and Merlin tried to return the gesture. It was hollow. He was a deceiver just like Cedric: lying and hiding and keeping secrets, sneaking behind his master and mistress' backs. Even though he had made the unbreakable vows, he still hadn't told Will the whole truth.

He was so scared that Will was going to hate him.

"I'll set the table," Merlin murmured and slipped out of the kitchen to the dining room.

The morning went by at a slow pace and he found himself longing to be back at the butcher's house, blissfully uncaring of the passing time, back in Will's arms and their little haven.

()()()

The order came not much later after breakfast when they were putting away the dishes. Merlin heard Gwen's surprise and then how she called for the youngest ones down the stairs, including an unruly grumpy Mordred, and bustle in the hall: coats being put on and shoes being laced. Gwen didn't question master Arthur's demand for solitude in the house. Both Uther and lady Ygraine were to leave in less than an hour by horse for a visit to von Bayard across town.

"Merlin," Gwen said, a bit out of breath, "have you seen Morgause's red shoes anywhere? I can't find them."

It took some long stressful minutes to herd them out of the house. Merlin managed to find the shoes and help put them on and the little girls stomped their feet impatiently and talked endlessly without listening to the other and Mordred muttered about not wanting to go; Arthur kept watching from the doorway to the study all the while, now and then casting a glance at the window, and though the man looked calm Merlin could sense his apprehension. Today everything was about timing. If the Pendragons left a bit late or if sir Cenred's company arrived too early, everything would come crashing down.

Merlin knew he should have left with Gwen but found himself lingering in the house, idly tidying up the kitchen and smoothing out curtains and dusting off shelves in the living room, waiting for a sign of a door opening and closing. Each chore took him closer and closer to the studio, up a stair and left down the hall and he was sorting the linen cupboard when lord Uther appeared in front of the door to the studio where Arthur had barricaded himself for the last hour. There was no sign of sir Cenred yet.

As he passed by the man glared at him with such ferocity Merlin tripped backwards, bumping into the wall.

"Arthur," Uther was saying, rapping at the aged wood, "open up." He was wearing an intimidating expression: Merlin could recall seeing it that time when he was accused of stealing, half a lifetime ago.

Lady Ygraine appeared next, rushing up the stairs her hair slightly wild like by wind. Merlin had never seen such a look of distress on her face before, and the fur on her shoulders was a bit ruffled. She put a hand on Uther's left shoulder, saying, "Don't, you know we're not allowed to—"

The man ignored her, his voice rising in strength. "Arthur, I'm warning you!"

And Merlin suddenly felt a bit sick as a dreaded sense of realization came hurling into his stomach. Had Uther heard about the painting? Had one of the children or Gwen seen and notified the man? Hadn't they been careful enough? Was it the many hours in the studio and his stress with doing all the other chores and the smell of linseed oil embedded in his clothing?

He heard a key in the lock and the door slid open an inch, two, three, before opening fully. Broad white daylight fell through the windows and onto the floor of the hall. "Yes, father?"

"Don't try to play innocent with me!" Uther growled and, ignoring the lady's pleads and Arthur's angry protests, crossed the threshold, his dark polished shoes clicking loudly against the floorboards. From where he was standing, frozen by fear, Merlin could see into the room easily and the corner had been stripped down, the chair gone, and the easel stood in the center, covered by black cloth.

"I know what you've been doing!"

"Then you should also know why," Arthur retorted angrily, tone low and warning and a full impact even as it was quiet.

"You are aware of what happened last time! Do you wish to bring more shame upon our family? Do you not recall at all? I won't allow this." The man took a step closer. "Where is the painting? _Where is the painting?_"

"It doesn't matter, you don't have to see it," Arthur said. "Cenred will take it and we won't have to bother."

Now the lady was beginning to lose her calm composure as well, the hand on her husband's shoulder falling away. From this angle, Merlin couldn't see her expression, but her voice trembled slightly and revealed everything. "Arthur, show us the painting."

"No."

Uther moved toward the easel and gripped the edge of the cloth forcefully, attempting to rip it off but Arthur shouted at him and leaped over to stop him, eyes blazing, and the lady had lost her calmness fully now:

"Arthur," she said again. "Show us it."

Arthur looked at them for a long while judgingly and his shoulders and neck were tense, and when he gave in his hands moved calmly, carefully removing the cloth: he wouldn't let the painting be harmed by anyone else's furious hands.

Breath was knocked out of Merlin's lungs as light fell onto the canvas. It was eerie and frightening to look at his own face, because he'd never seen himself in a mirror and never really cared – there, he looked so unfamiliar, so strangely beautiful and with parted lips and wide eyes, blue and silver and golden, he looked wanton and vulnerable and so fragile. It was unlike any portrait he had ever seen, and Merlin felt dizzy and ill and wanted to run away. How could Arthur have painted him like that and then be able to look at it, at _him_, be able give it away and let Cenred gaze at it unhindered? How could he? _How could he?_

Arthur's face was like a statue, carved by a steady skilled hand and immobile and betraying nothing but the shadow of a feeling, one that was difficult to read.

"It's…it's vulgar," the lord spat. "I want it out of my house. I want that servant out of my house!"

Uther raged like a storm and Merlin dropped the cloths he was holding, as the lady practically wailed. "Husband, please see sense…"

"The servant is getting out of my house _this instant!"_

"Father," Arthur said, but Uther gave him a poisonous look. Undeterred, the son continued: "Sir Cenred will arrive any moment now. Spare the boy. The painting will be sold and no one needs to know."

"Can you even hear yourself?" the lord growled, there was disappointment branding the reciewer of his glare and the son winced. _"Have you no shame?"_

Then Arthur's eyes widened as he spotted the servant leaning against the further wall, pale and trembling, and he took a careful step closer making Merlin wince and the lady turned his way too.

"Fetch your things," lady Ygraine said quietly, an order, and Merlin's eyes watered. "Go."

Arthur's face cracked and he looked so terribly broken. For the first time he openly protested against the lady's demands, but the woman didn't listen, looking at the servant unwaveringly. "Mother, don't," the son said, a plead, and Merlin didn't dare look at him because he suddenly realized that every time Arthur had looked at him the man really had meant so much more than he should have, and he hadn't been an object sitting there on the chair and Arthur _was just human_, having his childish silly dreams, just like him, and maybe what he had felt hadn't been onesided. They weren't that different; both weak simple humans and Arthur, who had always appeared so mysterious distant and strong never truly had been. Grasping at the knowledge what the fire behind Arthur's eyes meant hurt; hurt so badly.

Merlin took a trembling step forward; the words falling across his lips were feeble and couldn't convey anything of importance. Just... "Arthur," he murmured, "I..."

"Go," the lady cut across, no chance for redemption or goodbyes. "Leave. Do not come back."

If Arthur answered, Merlin couldn't hear.

()()()

Merlin rushed down the stairs, stumbling and gasping for breath. The outer doors slammed shut behind him a final time, heavy oak draped with memories. He almost fell but managed to catch himself against a stone pillar and stood there then, like in shock, rooted on the spot. The pack in his hands had been hurriedly put together and he almost dropped it, his grip of it feeble. He cast a painful longing glance back at the stony cold house, faintly able to hear the lord's furious yelling and Arthur's pleads for his clemency, and people passing by looked at him oddly just like the first day he arrived here; standing there lost in the haze, unable to move.

He didn't want to go. Oh gods, he didn't want to leave, not now, he wasn't ready. If he took a single step now he would never see Arthur ever again and he'd be so terribly alone.

It wasn't meant to be this way, he thought, knuckles whitening as he clung to his pack and held it close to his chest, tears burning his eyes._ What cruel fate made me fall in love with you?_

()()()

When Will came home that afternoon after a long day's work, the small house was silent and still and the man was half-way inside when he noticed the pale figure sitting by the table. No candles were lit and if not for the silent breathing betraying the young man's presence, Will could have thought the place abandoned.

"Merlin?" he asked, not gaining any reply. "What's happened?"

Merlin drew a sharp breath. "I..."

No words wanted to come. Whenever he tried to say what he really wanted to say, the only thoughts he had were of an artist's hands and an unbidden kiss and that damned portrait, but there was no way to tell them without being misunderstood. He lifted his gaze.

"I... I am not working for them anymore. I'm not working for them anymore …" He looked up at the man he loved and tried to smile, failing horribly. However he refused to cry. All tears had been spilled dry already while he'd run through the city half-blinded, not knowing where to go but his feet had led him here; to home.

Will looked startled and reached to light the nearest candle. "Merlin..." he said, almost like he was about to ask _What have they done to you? - _unlike last time, Merlin didn't shrug and avoid his gaze.

He took the man's hand, fitting his palm against the other. "We can have our freedom now."


	7. Epilogue: 1627

**VII: Epilogue**

**1627**

Snow just had fallen, a thin layer of white covering the rooftops, and the days had grown short, the sun a brilliant shade of copper as it reached the horizon. It had been a beautiful although chilly day with children laughing on the streets and when evening came, people wrapped their cloaks about them tighter and went indoors, into the warmth.

Ealdor was a small town: it was less than two days' ride from nearest city so whenever the fairs were held the townspeople could go, but remote enough to miss when passing through the landscape. The houses were unevenly place along the street, some packed together tightly, other spread out, surrounded by farmland. A soft yellow glow shone through the windows and the cracks of the shutters.

It had taken them years and nearly a fortune to get here. They were lucky, Merlin supposed, to have been able to at all. Ealdor had not exactly welcomed them with open arms but it was a good place to start: here, they were strangers, and no one knew anything about them. Will hadn't complained. He was relieved and happy to see the frown on Merlin's face disappear along with the words on Camelot's streets. It had only been weeks before rumours of the painting spread like wildfire but by then they had already decided to leave and begun counting the coins. As soon as they had enough to make a living someplace else, they had packed what they had, said goodbye to Hunith and Thomas and Freya (the girl sobbing into Merlin's chest, "You promised not to leave me!") and left Camelot behind.

Leaving had been strangely easy and Merlin hadn't glanced over his shoulder a single time back at the city he'd grown up and called his home.

Their cottage was tiny and they still needed more linen and tools and other necessary items, but Merlin didn't complain. Both he and Will worked the best they could and they didn't lead an awful life: there was food on the table and clothes on their bodies and they laughed and loved without hesitation.

There were no rumours about them at Ealdor's marketplace.

Merlin shifted the girl in his arms higher up his hip and walked over to the crib. Maybe it was luck or fate that he and Will had stumbled upon the child when travelling to Ealdor: the girl had been just a few weeks old, wrapped in a small dirty blanket, eyes full of tears and clearly been abandoned. He hadn't the heart to leave her there, alone and cold where she would die and Will, who had always wanted a family of his own, had agreed that they'd claim the child for their own and raise her; she looked nothing like either of them, but the townspeople never bothered to ask. Like any town it already had its share of broken families and parentless children. Maybe the girl's parents had fallen ill or been killed; maybe she'd simply been an inconvenience.

From time to time Will would speak up about it and lower his voice to a hush, a whisper: "Perhaps she or the parents possessed sorcery," he'd murmur and fear would grip Merlin's heart every time even if probably wasn't true; there had been no sign of abnormality, no glowing lights or inanimate objects coming to life. Ealdor might be small, but there still were guards and the law and the hate against magic.

Soft knocking at the door broke through his musings and Merlin looked up, hoping to see Will step over the threshold, cheeks flushed and with newly-fallen snowflakes in his hair, but there was just another knock, sharper this time. He frowned. A guest at this hour? Gingerly he placed his daughter in her crib in the corner, making sure she laid warm and comfortable and her breathing evening out, before walking over to answer the door.

The man on the doorstep was tall and his cloak was weather-bitten, but beneath it there was a rich man's clothing and Merlin couldn't breathe, staggering backwards.

"I am sorry to intrude." A deep breath, maybe hesitation. "May I come in?"

His eyes shone although there were dark circles of tiredness beneath them and his face was worn and aged; like he had kept going despite having little energy left. He was no more than twenty-four years old, but had aged quickly and it was evident that he was full of emotion and maybe distress and a thousand feelings ran through Merlin's mind at the sight.

It took a moment for Merlin to regain his voice and when he spoke there was a slight tremor. "What are you doing here?" he gasped, absolutely terrified, yet his heart leapt with a strange kind of joy and he wondered wildly _why_ had the man have to come, now when he almost was able to forget him – when he was just a shadow, something Merlin had almost pushed away. To have him step back into his life full of breath and colour was horrifying.

"You shouldn't be here."

The man didn't move but his expression betrayed him. "I have been searching for almost a year."

_I have been searching for you for almost a year._

A year. It was too long a search for something he shouldn't search for at all: was the man a fool? This would only cause pain. What good could come from this? Merlin's heart raced and he felt both love and burning fierce hate at the man's foolish dedication when he should have let. "You shouldn't have," he said, an edge to the tone, struggling not to betray how unsteady he felt. "You should leave – there is nothing for you here."

"Cenred is dead," the man said. "I thought I should tell you. I…"

"You should leave," Merlin cut across, not wanting to hear anything more, ignoring the sting of the words because they were true and it would be better for them all of the man paid they heed; "and forget."

They looked at each other quietly for a moment and Merlin remembered exactly the feeling of being trapped by that stare in the past.

After a heartbeat, the man's heard turned sideways and his hands lifted something from the pack, a flat package wrapped in red cloth. When the man held it out for him to take, Merlin just shook his head. He didn't need to see to know what was beneath the fabric, the texture dangerously close. He had never thought to see it again and never wanted to.

"No."

"I cannot keep it, and I will not sell it." Like he was saying, _I cannot let anyone else look at it._

"Then destroy it – burn it – it doesn't matter," Merlin said, hollowly, scared at his own harshness. "But I will not take it."

The man dipped his head in admission. He spotted the burning hearth and, without a word, stepped into the house and crossed the floor with powerful strides and threw it into the fire before there was time for protest. The flames spluttered and flickered before starting to lick hungrily at the edges and a faint smell of colour settled in the room, and Merlin was for a moment scared that Will would come home and smell it and find out, but then relaxed: he could tell him after this without worrying, because it was over now. The cloth fell away and slowly the canvas melted and by the morning there would only be a charred pile of ashes and memories left. After this, once it was truly gone, everything could be forgotten.

"I know what this has caused, and I apologize," Arthur murmured turning back to him and Merlin realized there were tears shining in the man's eyes.

He didn't say 'Good' or 'I understand' or 'Please, now _go'_ anything at all in reply because the words would just fall flat and make this goodbye worse; Merlin stepped aside, ignoring the sharp cold wind blowing through the open door, nodding jerkily.

"I will not return," Arthur said though there was no guarantee that _I will not forget you. _The man turned and left, the door creaking as it was closed and his horse neighed impatiently as he swung himself up in its saddle. It was all over now and Merlin knew that the man would hold true to his word, that he would never more would hear Arthur's husky voice or his footfalls across the floor.

**()()()**

_**Author's note**: Thank you everyone who've read, faved or reviewed! Without you I might not have bothered to finish this story. Also I'm feeling quite saddened at ending this already. (Endings are my weakness; it can take me ages to get them done and longer to get them well.) I know the last chapter could have been the ending if I wanted to, but I decided to write an epilogue. I'm sorry xXMistressMadHatterXx who wanted something from Arthur's point of view - it was my plan to write only from Merlin's POV. (I usually write from a general or many people's POV, and decided to try something 'new'.) Writing from Arthur's point of view in this story would be tricky and tough. Maybe some other time..._

_At my DeviantArt account I've actually uploaded a piece that could have been the painting Arthur did - it was kind of my intention as I made the picture (although I of course imagine Arthur to be a better artist than me - being a 'real artist' and all). See it here: **www . itar94 . deviantart . com /art /Portrait-Merlin-259337469. **It's at least an idea of the painting for those who want it visual and not just described in words. (I kept the neckerchief on.)_

_**Review replies** (If you have an account and PM allow, you should have recieved a reply through it; otherwise it's here.)_

_fictitiousshore: Thank you! I'm really glad you've read and liked this story._  
><em>On Uther's reaction: there's this thing mentioned about the past, (Uther said to Arthur "Don't you recall what happened last time?" or something like that), and all right that's quite vague. But that painting isn't going to be a private thing or secret for much long, even if Arthur said that 'no one has to know', because once Cenred's got it nothing can stop him from talking about right? So what Arthur said was a heat-of-the-moment-thing. And yes, they need the money, quite badly, so the painting was sold to Cenred but that's why they kicked out Merlin, so that when the rumours started it wouldn't affect them that much. (You could imagine that in the past, when Arthur painted that other paining for Cenred with a servant in the picture, the same thing happened: the servant was thrown out.) Because it's easier to blame a servant than blame a lecherous man with power and money.<em>  
><em>I hope that cleared it up.<em>

_Nina: Thank you for reviewing! (Question after chapter 5: The gold in Merlin's eyes that Arthur painted; it were specks of it, rather than a full colour, so in the painting Merlin has 'blue eyes _with_ gold in them' rather than gold eyes.)_

_Slashie: Thank you!_


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